Glimpses of the Moon
by Sandiane Carter
Summary: They have a deal.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Nope, still isn't the sequel to A Death in the Family. This is... I don't know what it is, lol. I'll let you read and find out. There are like eight chapters so far, and probably more to come. And yeah, they're short. Sorry for those who have gotten used to my long, long chapters. This is, well, new. I wanna thank Laura, without who this story wouldn't be half of what it is - and without who I wouldn't have a title. You rock. I love you.

**Disclaimer: Castle isn't mine, yadda yadda.**

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><p>The sky above them is an uninterrupted blue; a clear, bright hue that looks like it's been washed clean of any clouds. Kate smiles and stops for a moment, enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin, the quiet ruffle of the leaves, the birdsong. It's a perfect day.<p>

"How much longer?" The familiar voice of Richard Castle asks from behind.

The whiny tone makes her lips twitch in the briefest of smirks before she controls her face and turns around. Looking at him, she has to stifle yet another urge to smile, because if you forget the childish pout on his face, the man looks kind of cute in his hiking gear: beige shorts, a light blue shirt and a cap saying _I'm Whipped_, courtesy of Ryan and Esposito. His backpack matches the one she is wearing, and sneakers complete the outfit.

He has nice calves, Kate thinks fleetingly as her eyes linger over the strong, yet harmonious lines. She gives herself a mental shake, unwilling to go down that road _again._ When she meets Rick's eyes, she finds a glimmer of amusement dancing there. He doesn't even bother trying to hide it.

"Are you gonna ask that every ten minutes, Castle?" She finally answers in a stern voice, trying to regain control of the situation. "Because if you do, I'll just put in my earbuds and ignore you.

"And miss the pleasure of my 'vast arsenal of rapier wit'? I don't think so," the writer shrugs off nonchalantly.

"Just try me," Kate challenges, a dangerous glint shining in her green eyes.

Rick smiles, but keeps wisely silent. She almost comments on it, but her focus shifts when her eyes land on a nearby bush. Those look like mulberries, don't they? She squats down, picks one and tentatively tastes the small fruit.

She instantly regrets it; thank God Castle is holding his water bottle in his hand. She grabs it, drinks in great gulps, eager to wash down the bitter taste.

"Not ripe enough, I conclude?" he says, blue eyes crinkling, as she hands back the water.

"Be my guest and try them," Kate suggests wickedly. "But it's at your own risk."

He laughs and declines, and they start walking again, side by side, surrounded only by the smells and sounds of nature. It almost feels like they're the only human beings on the planet. Castle's hand nudges at Kate's, and she lets him entwine their fingers loosely. Doesn't shake him off.

About a mile later, they come across a fork in the path they're following. There are no signs whatsoever to direct them one way or the other, and Kate's brow furrows as she fumbles for the map in her back pocket, peers at it.

"Are we lost?" Castle asks, somewhat gleefully. Jeez, he's just waiting for something to go wrong, isn't he?

She doesn't answer immediately, intent on making out the intricate pattern of red and blue and green lines, and he goes on rather unfeelingly. "I knew it. I told you this was a terrible idea – now we're lost in the middle of nowhere, and –"

"Shut up, Castle, we're not lost," Kate interrupts with no small measure of annoyance.

"Oh, no? Then where are we?" He raises an eyebrow in challenge.

Her lower lip finds a home between her teeth, and one of her hands goes up to tuck a wandering lock of hair behind her ear as her eyes remain focused on the piece of paper. She can feel Rick's gaze resting on her, and she's not sure whether it's a good or a bad thing.

"We're…here," she says finally, pointing at a spot on the map. "Or maybe here," she amends in a lower voice, her finger following the path. She looks up to find a dubious expression on Castle's face and makes a small sound of irritation.

"We're in the south of France, somewhere between –" she glances at the map – "Réalmont and Lafenasse. There, satisfied?"

His blue eyes darken a little.

"Have I told you how hot your French accent makes me?" He asks in a husky voice, stepping closer. Kate rolls her eyes.

"You mean, as opposed to the way _you_ butcher the words?"

Castle's French is actually quite good, as she discovered over the last couple of days; it's his accent that leaves something to be desired. He pouts, though she can't tell if it's in response to her quip or because she's ignoring his attempt at seducing her.

"Let's go right," she finally decides, folding the map and directing her steps that way.

"We're going to get lost," she hears him grumble behind her. "I _said _this was a bad idea…"

The detective turns around, so fast that she sees him jump a little. Well, he's damn right to be scared. She can take some teasing – a lot of teasing, even – but she'd rather not have him doubt her when she's already doubting herself.

"Richard Castle. I seem to remember we had a deal."

He keeps silent. He does that sometimes, when he feels that he's done something wrong, but doesn't know what.

"You remember it too, don't you? And that deal, I think, made mention of _my_ being in charge of this."

Her words are met with more silence. She takes a threatening step towards him.

"Are you reneging on our deal?"

She has him; she won't let him off the hook until he answers.

"No, I'm not," he answers quickly. She arches an eyebrow, and he blurts out, "But I didn't think you'd _actually _go through with it!"

"So you thought you could trick me into forfeiting my part of the deal?"

She's playing dirty, using words like _forfeit_, when she knows his writer's mind will have trouble focusing on anything else. And indeed, Castle swallows, takes a few moments before he looks at her again, with that deer-in-the-headlight expression she's seen a few times before.

But then resolution settles on his face. He can be so expressive; she enjoys watching his thinking process play out in his eyes. She sees him hesitate, and yet his voice doesn't waver when he answers, "No. No. I did make that deal, and I'll hold to it. It's just…"

He sighs, but she keeps her focus on him, willing him to go on. He does.

"I've got all this money, Kate, and what good is it if you don't want to use it?"

Her eyes bore into him, intense, searching, and he doesn't flinch. Doesn't he understand what she's doing, where she's going with this? Well, yes, of course, it has to do with her being uncomfortable with Castle's money, but it's not just that. He's so used to expensive hotels, to his life of luxury; and she just wanted… She wants to show him how different it can be. She remembers the semester in Kiev, and then her tour of Europe, sleeping in youth hostels, or wherever they could find a bed. Life can be adventurous and fun in different ways than laser tag or throwing fancy parties.

And she also – she wants to show him that wild side to her, the one that blossomed fully in Kiev. Or whatever's left of it.

Maybe she expects too much out of this.

"Some things are worth more than money, Rick," she lets out at last, her voice soft.

He tilts his head, watching her closely. He's not getting it, not completely at least, but he seems okay with whatever conclusion he's reached.

"Okay," the writer replies. "Alright." His blue eyes suddenly twinkle with mischief, and Kate knows he's done being serious.

"So, fancy hotels are not your thing. But, Kate… _Hiking?_ Seriously?" He scrunches his face at her in distaste, and she rewards him with a bright smile, and the faintest sounds of a laugh.

"Quit whining, Rick," she orders in that bossy voice that works so well on him. Then she switches tactics, and moves forward to wind an arm around his neck. Her fingers curl into his hair as she whispers in his ear, "Are you not happy to be here? With me?"

He won't resist the words, let alone the sultry tone she's using. She can hear him gulp before answering, "Yes…"

The detective feels a 'but' coming, and she steps back, gives him a teasing, challenging glance.

"Then walk," she concludes decidedly. "And if I hear more complaining, I swear, Castle, I'm knocking you out and leaving you here, at the mercy of wild beasts."

He stares at her in mock outrage.

"But I'm your husband!"

"So?" She shoots back smoothly.

He stares some more.

"I can't decide if I am affronted or turned-on," he mutters dejectedly.

"Oh, poor Ricky. The two are not mutually exclusive, you know," she laughs, giving him a dirty look over her shoulder.

"Yep, turned-on definitely wins," he stage-whispers as he starts moving again, puffing out a loud, unhappy sigh.

"I thought I had made myself clear," Kate warns, though she can't completely keep her amusement out of her voice. "No –"

"Complaining," Rick finishes readily. "But that wasn't complaining, oh, adorable wife. That was _longing_. Can't you, detective, hear the difference?"

She narrows her eyes at him – questioning her abilities won't get him anywhere – but a tiny part of her is pleased, too. He did just imply that he's longing for her, didn't he? And since they're walking together, she guesses he doesn't mean _just_ her company.

The detective lets the corner of her mouth curve into a half-smile.

"I'll tell you what, Castle. You long in silence, and maybe I can find a way to reward you tonight."

"See, that's just not fair," he objects decidedly. "You _know_ I can't keep my mouth shut."

Kate turns to look at him, her eyes wide and alluring. Her index finger has found a strand of dark hair, and she's twirling it slowly, deliberately.

"Really? Not even with such…incentive?" She wonders in a low voice.

Rick opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. He almost looks in pain as he purses his lips resolutely, then makes a zipping gesture. His wife grins in delight, and brushes a hand against his bicep.

"Good boy," she breathes, before sauntering away.

How much of this can he take? She's looking forward to finding out.


	2. Chapter 2

By mid-afternoon, they make it to a small village called St Lieux Lafenasse. Castle is puffing loudly, exaggerating his breathing in order to get Kate to stop; she gives him her best _I'm seeing right through you _look. Truth is, her feet are starting to protest as well, and she wouldn't mind sitting down for a bit. Besides, they packed lunch and ate it a couple hours ago, but they didn't have coffee. Kate misses her coffee.

There's a nice little café on the village square, and she nods towards it, saying, "Want to take a break?"

There's a hint of triumph in Rick's happy acquiescence, but she doesn't mind. So what if he gets to her? The strange thing would be if he didn't.

Hell, she married him, didn't she?

They sit down, setting their backpacks on the floor with a relieved exclamation from Castle and a silent sigh from Kate. As they settle into the iron chairs (the cold metal feels heavenly against her back, even through the shirt), Rick's calf brushes against his wife's. She narrows her eyes at him – she's hot and sticky, and no doubt looking like a mess. But the simple shrug and the small smile he gives her in response disarm her; it seems like he's, after all, not trying to mess with her right now.

So she leaves her leg where it is, surprises herself by actually enjoying the barely-there touch. There's a fountain at the center of the square, murmuring softly, and the tall oaks shading the café filter the bright light of the afternoon sun.

The detective closes her eyes, a feeling of deep peace unfolding inside her; a sort of inner quiet made of the hushed sounds of conversation around them, of the light breeze cooling her, of Rick's presence at her side.

"Qu'est-ce que je vous sers?" A voice asks in French at her left, effectively bringing her moment to an end. The waiter seems to be in his early twenties; he has freckles all over his face, and a nice smile. Kate orders coffee, shoots an interrogative look at Castle. He wants a Coke; and suddenly, considering the heat and the sweat she can still feel trickling down her neck, Coke sounds much more appealing to her than coffee. So she changes her order, smiles at the waiter, grateful that he doesn't seem to mind one bit.

The guy is barely ten feet away when Rick lifts an eyebrow, smirking.

"Seems like you have a fan," he teases.

"A very deranged fan?" She asks before she can help herself. She doesn't really want him to know that their very first conversation (okay, interrogation) is burned forever into her memory; but the author looks at her with delighted surprise instead of the smug grin she sort of expected.

"Do I look deranged to you?" He answers after a beat, clearly enjoying the re-writing of their first meeting. Kate smiles, tilts her head.

"Well –"

"Don't bother answering," he scolds quickly. "That was a rhetorical question, Mrs. Castle."

Oh, she hates it when he does this. Or loves it, maybe. She can't always tell. But her breath catches every time, and even the knowledge that there were two other Mrs. Castle before her can't keep her heart from beating faster.

Damn him.

But the way he stares, almost pensive, makes her think that maybe she's not the only one having trouble over this. It makes her feel a little better, and so do his next words.

"It's weird, uh?" He asks gently, moving his hand across the table so that his pinky rests against her thumb. A smile ghosts Kate's lips, and she moves her thumb imperceptibly. It's almost a caress, almost. She focuses on that, the brush of their fingers, not bothering to answer his question with words.

He does it for her, anyway.

"Weird in a good way," Rick adds, and if she's not mistaken he sounds a little breathless for a guy who is currently sitting and making no effort whatsoever.

She loves it; the way he responds to the lightest touch, just because it's her. He told her something about this when they had just started dating – she remembers how disbelieving he sounded, and even a little upset. "Do you have any idea what this would do to my reputation if it was out?" He had complained. "If people knew all it takes for me to lose it is a touch from Kate Beckett? I'm supposed to be _good_ at this, Beckett!"

That night ended with him admitting that he didn't have much need for a reputation anymore, and her admitting that he _was _quite good at this. It's hard not to smile at the memory.

"Weird in a good way," she echoes slowly, fully aware that her low, throaty voice will do nothing to help him.

Kate watches Castle struggle with his desire for her, her amusement contained by the way her whole body is responding to the sight.

She distracts herself by thinking his words over. Weird in a good way. _Surreal _would work, too; this is why she's insisted on this, on a honeymoon that doesn't involve insanely expensive hotels and room service and limos. She needs real, down-to-earth stuff to counterbalance the sheer dizziness she feels at being _married _to Richard Castle. She needs the two of them alone, connected in other ways than just the physical. Not that she has anything against the physical, mind you – she certainly doesn't. But as she looks around at the old stone houses, the pretty little church, the men playing boules in the distance, she knows she made the right choice. Yes, the south of France can feel like a dream, too; but at least it's not one supported by Rick's money.

She needs to get used to the idea, the whole Mrs. Castle thing, before she can even consider practical aspects like finances.

And yes, of course, they dated for a year before he asked her to marry him; but dating isn't the same as marriage. It can't be. It's not that simple.

It _feels_ dangerously simply, though, and Kate can't help waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's just who she is. She trusts Castle in a visceral way that she trusts only a handful of people with; but still she can't help it, can't help waiting for something to go wrong.

As if he's read her thoughts, Rick smiles at her, slow, warm, reassuring. Her brain distantly notices that he's now following the veins of her wrist with his index finger, making her shiver; but she's more busy with the breath-taking thought that maybe, maybe, everything will be alright.

On an impulse, she leans over the table and presses her mouth to his, quick but hard and intense. He responds, of course, but the waiter comes back with their drinks before it can go any further. The young man winks at them good-humouredly, asks if they're on vacation.

Kate blushes slightly, and for some reason finds herself explaining that it's their honeymoon. _Lune de miel_: the similarity between the phrases has always struck her. Did the English base that on the French language, or the reverse? Maybe Castle knows; she'll have to ask him.

The waiter grins widely, wishes them happy and heads to another table. Rick's blue eyes lock onto hers; contentment makes them twinkle. A shiver runs through her. Yes, happy sounds like a good enough description for it.


	3. Chapter 3

When they're refreshed and rested, Kate pays for the drinks and leaves a generous tip for the friendly waiter. It irks Castle a little, that he's not even allowed to have his wallet with him. Besides the fact that euros are fun – what other currency has orange, green and yellow bank notes, seriously? – he feels… rather naked, to be honest. But he sees Kate's point.

He understands how frustrating it is, not to be allowed to contribute at all; understands it more clearly than he ever has. After three days in France, he's tired of it already – how Kate has borne it through all the wedding arrangements, he has no idea. But he realizes now that it will not do to just expect her to use his money.

They should have a joint account, he thinks. Maybe an account where they would each put the same amount of money, each month? He's not sure how well that would work. Castle is aware that he is used to his life of luxury. He doesn't spend as much as he could, but he certainly spends more than is strictly necessary.

Well, it depends what you call necessary, really. He _does_ need classy suits for his interviews and signings, and the laser tag gear and video games are necessary to his well-being, aren't they? The property on the moon, on the other hand…

Kate's hand, coming to rest at the crook of his elbow, saves him from further examining the matter. He looks at her: her eyes are soft, softer than he's ever seen them maybe, and she bites her lip as she tugs him after her, into the narrow, meandering streets of the village. She still fascinates him, after all this time; he has this feeling that he'll never manage to see all there is to her.

A mystery he will never solve. He is rather proud of the way he worded it.

Tearing his gaze from her at last, Castle casts a look around.

The houses are mostly made of light colored stone, with shutters painted in bright hues – blue, green, orange even. Flowers are spilling out from window boxes, the scent heavy in the air; there's a house completely covered in ivy, the open windows like dark holes cut into the front.

"Look," he whispers. "It's got eyes. Big House is watching us."

Kate shakes her head but she still lets out a chuckle, and he relishes the sound.

"Let's be good citizens, then. I'd rather not have my brain wiped clean."

"Oh, come on. I'll admit Winston's fate in _1984_ is not very enviable, but at least he fought and tried to gain his freedom. Knowing you, I highly doubt you'd have just stood there and done nothing."

"Probably not," she agrees, her hair brushing against her shoulder as she tilts her chin pensively. "So I guess it's a good thing _1984_ is just a book, uh?"

This time Rick is the one to concede defeat with a good-humored smile. The similarity between Winston going against the _1984_ society and Kate risking her life to unveil the conspiracy surrounding her mother's murder does cross his mind, but he won't dwell on that now. Not when she's warm against him, lets him hook an arm around her neck and brush a kiss to her dark, silky hair.

"It's been a long time since I've read it," he remarks suddenly. "I'll look for it when we get home."

_We._

_Home._

He loves using those words. Well, using those words with regard to Kate. His wife. His _wife_. Even in his mind, he barely dares to say this one, and when he does it's surrounded with an awe and respect and gratitude that he wishes he could express to her – wait, no. She would make fun of him forever. She always does when he's being sappy.

Though there was this one time when he thinks he actually saw her tear up a little –

"What are you thinking?" Kate asks, making him start. "Wait," she adds with a lopsided smile, "I think I don't want to know."

"Oh, is that where your mind is, detective?" He teases, delighted. "My, my, you dirty little thing. I was thinking nothing of the sort. Merely wondering what kind of stone those houses are made of."

"Oh, really? Stone?" Her face is the very epitome of disbelieving.

"Too bad you'll never know," he grins.

Kate looks like she's considering getting the truth out of him through ways that he would probably not enjoy. Rick deems it prudent to put some distance between them, and he gets closer to said stone. He actually has a thing for architecture, and though he wasn't _really_ thinking about stone, he'd definitely like to know more about this type of building. He has never seen this type of house anywhere but in France.

When he turns back to his wife (oh, the fuzzy feeling that goes with the word), he finds her with her lower lip pulled between her teeth, holding back a smile.

"What?" He asks, before he realizes that his examining the building must have convinced her he was telling the truth. Uh. And he didn't even do that on purpose.

"You're something, you know that?" She says.

Okay, maybe she doesn't believe him after all.

"But you mean that in a good way, right?" Rick prods, hoping to see her smile widen.

And it does. Kate's eyes twinkle while she weighs her answer.

"Most of the time, I guess. But there are some bad surprises too. I will never forget the smorelet, Rick."

He pouts to hide his very real disappointment. He was so excited to show her smorelets – yes, Alexis and his mother have once and for all declared the thing to be a culinary disaster, but he had this feeling that Beckett would understand the real beauty of it.

Couldn't have been more wrong.

"Don't sulk," Kate says laughingly, running a light thumb along his jaw. "Esposito loves the thing as much as you do."

"But he's the only one," the author cannot help complaining.

Ryan almost spat it out, and Lanie flat-out refused to even try it. He knows, somewhere deep inside, that he shouldn't get upset over stuff like this – it's not like smorelets are novels of his. But it does feel like they are, at least a little, and when people reject smorelets, well… They're rejecting a little bit of him, too. Silly. He's being silly.

Still, he looks at Kate, hoping for comfort. Her attention has shifted, though, and he follows her gaze, his eyes finding a cute blue and white sign a little further along the street.

"Rick, look," she says, moving closer.

It's a _chambre d'hôtes_, which is sort of the French equivalent to a Bed and Breakfast. The house is loveliness itself, with a small iron gate that seems right out of _Alice in Wonderland_, blue curtains, and a little pathway that leads to the back – the garden, probably – surrounded by small trees.

Kate cannot seem to tear her gaze away from it. He doesn't remember the last time he saw her so taken with something. Except himself, maybe. Oh, it's hard not to grin smugly at the thought.

"It doesn't say 'no vacancies'," he points out after a moment. Rick's not exactly sure he's allowed to make suggestions; but she seems so pleased with the house, and there's no reason why they shouldn't stay here tonight. Or is there?

"Kate, were you planning on us covering more distance today?"

He knows she has an itinerary planned for them, though she only booked a hotel for their first two nights ("more fun this way," she told him when he raised his eyebrows at her in surprise). He would never have guessed that Detective Kate Beckett, who is admittedly quite the control freak, could go on a trip without booking everything in advance and checking twice to make sure it was all okay. The author smiles to himself. He's not the only one with surprises here.

She checks out her map and the schedule she's made, eyebrows knit together. He watches her, delighted by the attention and the care she puts in everything she does. His Kate.

"I was," she answers slowly, oblivious to his staring for once, "but stopping here could work too. Apparently there's a nice lake not far from here; we could leave our backpacks here, eat something, and then head out for a walk. What do you think?" She asks, lifting her chin and looking into his eyes. Her lips curve into a seductive smile. "You, me, the sunset on the _lac de la Bancalié_?"

She does the French accent thing on purpose, he knows that. But boy, is it working.

"Say no more, my dear," he whispers in the husky voice that works on her, most of the time. "As long as you don't ask me to repeat what that name of the lake was, I'm all in."

Kate laughs, her eyes bright with pleasure and something more. Love, he tells himself. It's love that gives her that glow, that lifts the corner of her mouth into that sweet smile. A smile directed at him. His heart swells unexpectedly.

"Let's ask them if they have rooms first, shall we?" She suggests with a teasing glance. "I know someone will get grumpy if we have to walk to the next village."

Rick shrugs, but follows her inside the house. He remembers his initial reaction to her honeymoon plans (it was something along the lines of a disbelieving grin and a, "Backpacking in the south of France, seriously?") and amusement bubbles up inside him. At least, he thinks, he's not so much of an idiot that he can't admit he was wrong. And yeah, he's forty years old, but he's the first to claim that he's still young and everything, isn't he?

Truth is, he'd do anything for Kate. So, walking with her along hiking paths, surrounded with sweet-smelling trees and the occasional bee? Eh, he's been through much worse. In fact, though he hasn't told her yet, this is the best honeymoon he's had by far.

Oh, wait. He won't tell her this. That would be incredibly tactless of him. Although, maybe, she'd be flattered? Just a little?

No. He won't risk it.

When he steps inside, his lovely detective is already talking to the woman who manages the _chambre d'hôtes _(Richard loves using French words, even in his mind), and they look like they're getting along nicely. The woman is in her fifties, with short, red hair, and fancy earrings; her smile is warm and her green eyes shine as she gives a pen to Kate and lets her write their information in a big leather book.

The lobby is a simple combination of white walls and exposed beams, and there are a few newspaper articles hanging in front of him, presumably singing the praises of this place. Castle steps closer, starts reading one. He understands most of it, and learns the name of their hostess – Jocelyne – even if he has no idea how to pronounce it.

"Rick?"

He turns around, finds Kate and said Jocelyne waiting for him with mirroring smiles.

"She's going to show us our room," his wife tells him with a tilt of her head that says_, get over here_.

He obeys quickly enough, linking his hand with Kate's as he does. She's in a good mood today, hasn't shaken him off once. They follow a blue corridor, walk up a flight of stairs, and then the red-haired woman opens a door, gestures for them to get in.

The room, without being very big, is really nice – blue walls (he's noticing a trend), deep red curtains, and everything else matching one or the other. The bed is a large one, and the mattress looks so comfortable that Rick feels like trying it immediately.

Stifling that urge (he has an idea that Kate wouldn't enjoy it so much), he turns to Jocelyne to thank her.

"I'm glad you like the room," she says in a decent English, before she switches back to French. "Si vous avez des questions, n'hésitez pas à venir me trouver, d'accord?"

The door closes on the helpful woman, and Castle turns to his wife. Kate is sitting on the bed, looking around with a pleased look. She seems so relaxed; he could just stay here and stare at her all day.

"I'm calling dibs on the shower," she calls to him cheerfully, well aware that she has his full attention.

"Oh, really?" He answers playfully, putting down his backpack and coming to stand between her and the door to the bathroom. "You think this is how it's gonna work, uh? You say something, and I bow to you?"

"I don't think, Castle. I know," Kate quips back, pushing herself up. The momentum almost throws her against his chest; he takes it as his cue to wrap his arms around her waist, trapping her there.

"No, no, detective," he exclaims brightly. "It doesn't work like that. You'll have to be _nice_ about it."

"Nice, uh? Jeez, what does that even mean?" She whispers in fake puzzlement. The laughter she's containing makes her eyes sparkle in an oh-so attractive way.

"I can show you," Rick offers, not bothering to hide his delighted smile.

"So kind of you to offer, Ricky," she teases back. One of his hands comes up to cup her neck, and he thinks he can feel her leaning back into his touch.

"Just be nice, Kate," he pleads, half in jest, half in earnest. He just wants to kiss her, so badly.

The dark-haired woman looks at him with those big, green eyes of hers, and she brushes her lips against his, once, twice – then she tiptoes and whispers in his ear, "You wish, Castle."

He didn't realize she had sneaked her hand under his t-shirt, and when she pinches the skin around his waist – not hard enough to hurt, but enough to have him yelping in surprise – he jumps back. This time, her laughter spills out of her as she darts to the bathroom, faster than he can catch her. She stops to wink at him before she closes the door.

"Maybe next time, Rick!" She calls to him.

The writer lets himself fall on the bed, grinning widely. She's _such _a tease.

And he loves her.


	4. Chapter 4

When Castle walks out of the bathroom, steam in his wake, he finds his wife kneeling down, rummaging through her stuff. She already pulled out a couple shirts and – what is that she's holding? Underwear? Those are white cotton, not exactly the most alluring he's seen, so he feels a little silly for the reaction it triggers from his body. But eh, it's Kate he's talking about. The woman just oozes sex appeal twenty-four seven.

"Uh, Kate?" He asks, his voice coming out huskier than he planned on.

She takes a second or two to answer, intent on grabbing something that seems to be at the bottom of her backpack. She lets out a triumphant exclamation when she finally gets the garment out. It's a simple black bra. She's trying to kill him, most definitely.

She finally acknowledges him, flashing him a brief smile, and explains.

"Jocelyne just came up to tell me she's doing laundry, and she's got some extra room. So if we want to wash some of our clothes, now's the perfect time. I can't believe how nice she is," Kate adds to herself, gathering the t-shirts and underwear.

Castle hears the words Jocelyne and laundry and clothes in some distant part of his brain, but that's not where his interest presently lies. Beckett – he still calls her that sometimes, can't help it really – has tied her wet hair into a messy bun, and she's standing with her back to him. The smooth line of her neck, the fair skin that he _knows _to be so soft: they're just calling for his attention.

He moves stealthily, splaying his hands on her hips, finding that space between her shirt and her jeans with his fingers. Kate tenses up in surprise, then relaxes against him.

This is the moment when the realization of how lucky he is hits him with the most strength. The fact that she'll allow him close, that she will let herself be vulnerable in his arms; it's cause of infinite wonder, of endless delight.

"Rick," she whispers, and he hears her smile in her voice, hears the mesh of surprise and pleasure that his move has elicited in her.

She's amazing. And she's his.

He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the junction between neck and shoulder, feels Kate's breath hitching in response. God, he wants to spend his life doing this, finding every way to make her breath catch in her throat. Gorgeous, gorgeous throat, he thinks, letting his lips wander between that and her ear before he follows the same path again, this time with the tip of his tongue.

Kate moans, throws her head back against his shoulder. He forgets sometimes how well she fits against him without the heels on.

"Castle," she murmurs as he flips her over, wanting to kiss her in a way that their previous position wouldn't allow. But her hands land on his chest, and she pushes him back, something his brain cannot account for. Her green eyes meet his, dark and bottomless, and she licks at her lips before saying, "Laundry."

He looks at her in disbelief, wondering if she's playing with him. Who cares about the damn laundry? But then he sees her trying to put herself together – which is the _opposite_ of what he wants – and suddenly the laundry becomes a very serious thing.

Looking around, he grabs his backpack, quickly sorts out his dirty clothes from the clean ones, walks back to the bed, picking up the nice little pile formed by Kate's stuff. When he glances at his wife, he's relieved to find she hasn't moved. She's still leaning against the bed end; and from the way her mouth twists, she's holding back a smile.

"I'll go give these to… Jocelyne," he says, trying to get the pronunciation right. At least Kate doesn't laugh at him. "I'll be quick. You just – stay here. Don't move," he pleads. "I'll be right back."

Then he tumbles out of the door, desperate to find their kind hostess. Kate's mouth, soft and melting under his, is the only thing he can think of.

* * *

><p>He comes back as quick as he can, but Kate's back in the bathroom, drying her hair, and Rick feels himself sag in disappointment.<p>

"You said you wouldn't move," he can't help but complain childishly, leaning against the doorframe.

"Actually, Castle," she answers, her bright green eyes meeting his in the mirror, "I didn't say anything. _You_ assumed."

He pouts at her, and she smiles softly. Damn, she's hard to resist. He tries to make his point another way.

"You do realize it's our honeymoon, right? We're sort of supposed to…" He hesitates for a second, and it's all she needs.

"Go at it like rabbits?" She suggests, her graceful posture and poised expression negating her words with a skill he wishes he could match.

He's just going to have to let her win this time. He knows, from the very way she stands, that she won't let him get close again.

Kate must feel how disappointed he is, because she says, "Come on, Rick. I want to watch the sunset from those hills. And I want to eat something first. So get ready."

Okay, so he likes her bossy self. The bossy self that won't let him wallow in misery. He grins, sinks to the floor, his back to the bathroom wall. His wife raises an eyebrow at him.

"I'm ready," he explains, shrugging. "I'll just wait for you."

"And watch me dry my hair?" She asks, her lips curling into a shadow of a smile.

He shrugs again. _Deal with it._

Clearly she doesn't mind so much; she simply turns back to the mirror, letting out a small, "Creep."

"Tease," he shoots back immediately.

The shadow becomes a smile in its own right. She keeps silent, however, conceding him the point – at least, that's how he chooses to interpret it. The blow dryer's sounds quickly take over, and Rick settles more comfortably against the wall, his eyes following her every move.

Beautiful.

And even that word doesn't come anywhere near describing her.

* * *

><p>Because Kate spends, no doubt, much less time on her hair than any other woman he's ever been with (another reason to love her, if he needs any more), it's not long before they're out of their room and walking down the stairs. They run into a four-person family who must be another bedroom's occupants – the parents are a couple between thirty-five and forty years old, then there's a boy who's probably twelve or so, and a girl, slightly younger. They all have pale blonde hair (they could almost be the Malfoy family, Rick thinks with a well-hidden smirk) and seeing how they respond to Kate's hello in impeccable English, he guesses that they must be from a Nordic country, Denmark or Sweden, maybe. He remembers reading something about Nordic people's special gift for languages.<p>

Jocelyne is back at the desk when they reach the entrance, and Kate, smiling, asks the older woman for some advice as to the best path to get to the Lac de la Bancalié. She must really like their hostess; Castle is accustomed to a more independent version of his wife, one who finds things out by herself, asking for help only when she can think of no other way. It reminds him of how much he still has to learn about her. He should never make the mistake of thinking that he's got her all figured out.

Yes, he knows Precinct-Beckett well – well enough to follow her thinking process, at least, and predict rather accurately what her next move will be – but Casual Kate is still something of a stranger, no matter how much time he's spent with her over the last year. Casual Kate he can convince to spend the day in bed with him; Casual Kate likes the museum and the park and sometimes even holds his hand in the street. He cannot take Casual Kate to the movies without her making friends with people in the line, or the cashier, or the couple sitting next to them in the theatre.

Needless to say, he's developed quite a fondness for Casual Kate.

The sound of his wife laughing brings him back from his thoughts; she's still speaking French with Jocelyne, too fast for him to understand everything. He feels a bit silly, remembering how he was planning to impress Kate with his somewhat decent knowledge of the language. Didn't take him long to revise that idea. _How_ is it that her French is that good, anyway? Russian he has an explanation for – the semester in Kiev – but French? She eluded his question when he asked before, so he'll have to pry it out of her. He's looking forward to it.

Ah, _fraises._ Strawberries. That, he understands. He listens more attentively, gathers that Jocelyne's husband (Jacques, if he's not mistaken) cultivates a small patch of land outside the village, and that's where most of their fruit and vegetables come from. The woman is suggesting that they take strawberries (or cherries, or something else he doesn't grasp) with them, since the lake is an hour's walk away. Castle intervenes, because he can tell that Kate is trying to find a polite way to say no, and he is starting to feel hungry already.

"Des fraises, c'est très bien," he says with a warm smile, hoping to get it right. "Merci beaucoup."

Their hostess beams at him, and disappears into the next room – the kitchen, probably – to fetch the fruit. Kate's eyes are on him, half surprised (maybe he _can_ impress her a little, after all), half scolding.

"Castle," she murmurs. "The woman's nice enough as it is. We can get our own food."

"But she was offering," he reasons. "And did you see how happy she looked? She _wants_ us to have those strawberries, Kate. Why disappoint her? I'm kind of hungry, anyway."

"A walking stomach, that's what you are," she replies, rolling her eyes, but he hasn't missed the way her lips curved upward for a split second right there.

Jocelyne makes her reappearance with enough fruit to feed a small army, and she warmly encourages them to take as much as they want. It's part of the room's price, she assures when she takes notice of Kate's reluctance.

Though Castle isn't sure about the fruit, he does know that _chambres d'hôtes_ include meals in their prices, and he asks the red-haired woman at what time dinner is served.

"Vers huit heures," she answers with a smile.

He translates mentally – eight – and glances at his watch. It's a little after five-thirty. They can make it, but if Kate wants to watch the sunset…

The next minutes have him fighting to hold his grin in check. His wife tells Jocelyne not to wait for them, because they probably won't be back before nine, but the kind-hearted woman replies that she'll leave their supper in the dinner room for them, and they can warm it up in the microwave when they get back. Kate tries to convince her that there's really no need to bother, but their hostess is as inflexible as she is friendly, and in the end the detective can only yield and accept it gracefully. It's a rare enough spectacle that Rick finds himself thoroughly entertained.

So they leave with strawberries and cherries safely tucked in their backpacks, and the promise of a warm meal whenever they get back. Castle can't remember why he ever had objections to hiking in the south of France (especially if it involves watching as Kate's stubbornness meets its match). Of course she catches him smiling, and sends a murderous glance his way.

"Not funny, Richard," she says pointedly. Even she cannot hold back her amusement, though, and he watches with delight as a smile lights up the green eyes he's come to love so much.

His wife.

Hell, he must have been a _really_ good guy in his previous lives, to have gotten such a reward in this one.


	5. Chapter 5

Kate had to make a conscious effort, back at the _chambre d'hôtes_, to remember that she wanted to go out again and watch the sunset – Castle's mouth can have annoying side-effects like that. But now that she's walking with him, enjoying the way the temperature has cooled, she doesn't regret it.

The scenery on their right is hills and valleys, fields of sunflowers and corn, with isolated country houses to punctuate the vast extents of land, and the occasional cow. On their left is a small forest; the smell is mainly pine, though there are other trees thrown into the mix. Kate loves pine, always has – the needles make for a soft rug under the soles of their shoes, and every time she inhales, she feels like closing her eyes in pleasure.

That's another perk of taking a walk in the evening: the perfumes of nature are just so much more distinct, every little plant or flower contributing its own flagrance to the general blend. The more unpleasant smells are barely distinguishable.

"And here I was, thinking you were a city girl through and through," Castle's voice observes with genuine amusement when she does give in to the temptation, eyelids sliding shut at last.

Kate smiles. An irresistible urge to stretch languidly and hum her contentment fills her, caused partly by her surroundings, partly by her husband's deep, lulling tones.

"I _am_ a city girl," she answers after a beat or two, slowly gaining her sense of sight again. "But when I was little, my dad went on those camping trips with his brother, and it just sounded like so much fun. I remember begging and begging for him to take me, until one day he finally decided that I was old enough, and I got to come along. I must have been, I don't know, twelve? It felt like the biggest adventure of my life. It was only three days sleeping in a tent without getting a real shower, but it was… I'll never forget it. My uncle knew a lot about wildlife, and he could make a spider's existence sound like the most fascinating thing ever."

"Sounds like my kind of guy," Castle comments, and she can hear the smile in his voice without looking at him. She can also hear the unspoken question behind his words.

"He died when I was fifteen," she answers, suddenly unsure about how much she wants to share. "Car accident."

"Oh," Castle breathes, understanding laced with sadness in his eyes. He reaches for her hand, squeezes it gently, and it's enough to make the weight on her heart lift a little. Moments like this remind her of the reasons why she fell for Richard Castle in the first place.

"Anyway," she goes on after a moment, "I only went camping with them twice, but those memories are really, really good ones. So I guess part of me loosely associates camping and happiness, you know? Among other things, of course."

She feels herself blush, suddenly caught off guard by exactly how much she's shared. Castle is no idiot – she can almost hear the gears turning in his brain, can almost point out the moment when he reaches the obvious conclusion. That she's insisted on going camping because she's happy with him, because camping is associated with happy places in her mind.

Oh, well. It's not like she never meant for him to find out. She's just… vaguely uncomfortable about having made such a declaration, even in covert words.

Kate is so taken with her own thoughts that she doesn't see it coming at all. In a moment, she finds herself pressed against Rick's chest, his mouth finding hers with a passion, gentle and thorough in that way that only he seems to achieve. She responds instinctively, her fingers burying in his copper hair, and her other hand curling at his waist as he works to leave her breathless, erasing any coherent thought from her mind.

Maybe telling him about the camping thing wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

* * *

><p>They get a little lost, even with Jocelyne's directions, and they end up watching the sunset from a low dry stone wall on top of a hill, instead of the desired lake. The detective doesn't mind; the gorgeous colours in the sky are just the same, and the man at her back is, she'll admit it to herself, more important to her evening than a lake could ever be.<p>

After a moment, however, Castle grows restless – of course he would – and he starts looking around, leaving Kate to absorb as much beauty as she can. She needs this, needs it to fight the dire realities of her job, the darker hues of blood and murder. So she watches as orange slowly turns to red, and red to purple, and a small smile plays on her lips.

Her mom always has a soft spot for sunsets, and when she was younger, her daughter could never understand it. "But it happens every _day_," she would complain, tugging on Johanna's hand when the woman paused in the middle of walking home, or of helping Kate with her homework, or whatever activity she had been immersed in.

"All the more reason to wonder, don't you think?" Her mother had answered softly once. "That something that comes back so often can still be so beautiful."

She doesn't remember her reaction at the time – although it's most probable that she huffed and started fidgeting – but today she understands, and she loves the slow descent of the sun all the more for it, for the way it makes her feel closer to her mother.

"Oh, Kate, look!" Castle exclaims from some place on her right, derailing her train of thought. She's too busy with the sunset to immediately take notice of him, but part of her brain registers his voice, and a faint chirping noise, and when she connects the two she turns quickly.

"Rick, don't – "

She doesn't finish that sentence, because she can see it's done already. The writer is on his knees, a couple meters away, holding a downy little thing in his hands. Damn it.

"Look," he says in an awed voice that almost brings a smile to her lips. "A baby bird."

Kate sighs, leaves her perch on the low wall to come and lean against a tree next to him.

"He must have fallen from somewhere," Rick guesses, raising his eyes to the top of the trees, searching.

"Sure did," the detective says in a neutral voice. "And now you've killed it."

"What?" he exclaims, hastily looking back to the bird in his hands. The little thing chirps happily, apparently pleased with the warmth of its new 'nest'. "No, it's alive," he tells Kate with a smile.

"Castle. Have you never heard of this? When fledglings fall from their nest, the worst thing you can do for them is to touch them. Because when their mother will come looking for them, they'll have taken on your smell, and she won't recognize them. She'll leave them there, to die."

She didn't mean to sound so patronizing, but come on. How can he _not_ know this?

His reaction is even more disturbing. Instead of looking panicked or upset like she expects him to, Rick starts laughing.

"How is the imminent death of that bird so amusing?" She asks a little defensively. She hates feeling like there's something she doesn't get.

Castle springs to his feet, still chuckling, and he examines the trees around them attentively. Kate folds her arms on her chest. What the hell is he doing? Also, she asked him a question. Kate Beckett doesn't take kindly to being ignored.

"That bird isn't gonna die," the writer answers before she can get mad at him. "And I'm laughing because it looks like, for once, I know something you don't. Day to remember and all that."

Then he hums, looking pleased with whatever he's found, his gaze still trained on the treetops. Before Kate has time to inquire about his meaning, Rick has tucked the bird in his shirt's pocket and he's climbing the tree closest to him. _Climbing._

"What the hell, Castle?" She exclaims. She steps closer, but he's already on a higher bough. He's actually quite good at this, she realizes through her annoyance. Her heart is beating a little fast, because she can't help but picturing him falling, and she hates the helpless feeling in her gut. She's not about to turn into those overly concerned wives who get anxious over the smallest things. She's not.

Can't he just get down already?

Craning her neck, Kate finally catches sight of the nest, understands what Castle's doing. He's about twelve feet above her now, and it seems like he's found a secure branch to sit on. She watches as he extends his arm and, very gently, puts the fallen bird back with its brothers. She can hear the eruption of chirping that welcomes the survivor, and a small smile tugs at her lips.

That's before her writer of a husband decides to take the faster way down, his left foot slipping from its hold on the trunk when he's halfway to the ground. He tries to catch himself, hisses in pain when he scratches his forearm against the bark and lands more or less awkwardly on the floor.

Concern propels Kate forward, even though half of her is tempted to let him get back on his feet alone, as punishment.

"Jesus, Castle," she swears under her breath, gripping his arm and helping him up, not very gently.

"I'm fine," he winces, looking a little unsteady. His face falls almost comically when he notices the blood on his wrist. "Mostly fine," he corrects with a sheepish smile.

His wife is torn between beating the crap out of him and hugging him tightly. Since the first would be counter productive, and she's still too mad for the second, she settles for something else.

"What were you thinking?" She asks, maybe more aggressively than he deserves. "Climbing trees, Rick? _Really?_"

He blinks, surprised maybe by her forcefulness. She sees the grin form in his eyes before it even reaches his mouth, and suddenly reconsiders the 'beating the crap out of him' option.

"Why are you so angry?" Castle asks with an impish glance. "Can't see a reason, unless you were _worried _about me."

She hates that he can read her like this. He gets a tissue out of his pocket and dabs at the blood on his forearm, but his attention is still on her.

"Unless," he goes on, "you got a little bit of a scare. And you don't like to be scared. Do you, Kate?"

Ugh. So annoying, the way he does that. She's not looking at him, because she doesn't want him to see how right he is, but she can hear that the amusement in his voice is laced with tenderness, too. Well, and a hint of triumph, but that's just Castle for you.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, reaching for her and trying to pull her closer. Kate resists for a second or two, then lets him wrap an around her, bring her to his chest. "I didn't mean to scare you," he whispers, and then adds laughingly, "but maybe I *was* trying to impress you a little."

She huffs a chuckle against her will, moves away from him. Rick tries to follow her, gasps in pain when his left foot meets the floor. Did he…? The detective's eyes dart from his face to his ankle, and back.

"Please tell me you didn't sprain your ankle," she exclaims before she can think better of it. God, not when she planned a honeymoon made essentially of hiking.

"Jeez, Beckett, your concern is touching," he snaps, experimentally resting his weight on his left leg.

Kate pulls her lower lip between her teeth, realizing how it must sound. But she didn't mean… She's not doing a terrible job at this wife thing, is she?

Stepping forward, she positions herself so Castle can lean on her if he needs too.

"How bad does it hurt?" She asks in a gentler voice, hoping he'll hear the apology behind her words.

The good thing with Rick is that he is not one to hold grudges; but she needs to remember it, remember that his readiness to forgive means she has to be better, deserve it, even as he rests a tentative hand on her shoulder, takes a step. And another.

"It's fine," Castle says immediately, relief rolling off him, into her. "It took me by surprise, that's all. It's not a sprain, Kate. I probably just landed a little hard." He gives her the lopsided smile that she loves, and jokes, "You won't get rid of me that easily."

"Damn. My evil plan has been foiled."

"So it was you who took that baby bird out of its nest, uh? I knew it. Cruel, cruel woman."

Sometimes Kate wonders if the banter thing is always good. Sure, it's who they are, and she loves it. She does. But making light of what is serious… Not the best option all the time.

She suddenly remembers he didn't answer her earlier question.

"Talking of the bird – "

"Oh, yeah," Castle answers easily. "Wives' tale. The 'don't touch the bird because it'll take on your smell' story? It's not true. Most birds have a really poor sense of smell. So the best chance of survival of a fallen-from-the-nest fledgling is actually, if you can manage that, to put it back as fast as you can."

"How do you even know that?" Kate inquires, half-disbelieving, half-turned on.

"Occupational hazard?" He shrugs, adds with a mischievous smile, "If you knew what programs I come across when I'm writing late at night and can't go to sleep afterwards…"

"Okay," she cuts him quickly, "That's enough information right there."

"Are you sure? There was this really interesting study on the sexual activity of people over sixty…"

"Trust me, Castle," she shoots back with a sultry glance, "You'll get first-hand experience of that soon enough."

Rick gapes at her, indignation pouring from his eyes, from his open mouth. Oh, how she loves teasing him. Kate takes a few steps, then thinks better of it – it might not be a sprain, but she had probably better stay close.

Although he seems to be walking just fine on his own.

"I am so, so far away from being sixty, woman," Castle growls against her ear, crowding her, and a pleased shiver courses through Kate's body. She hums in response, that 'Oh, really?' sound that she knows drives him crazy.

Never fails. The writer groans, skims his parted lips along the white column of her neck until she lets out a soft gasp.

"Did that feel like a sixty-year-old to you?" He asks with a satisfied grin, stepping back.

Kate licks her lips, letting her eyes answer for her.

"More to come later, my dear," he taunts with a wink, and he raises a hand – to cup her cheek, maybe? His wife grabs his wrist before he can get close, and she bends her other arm to retrieve a small bottle from the outside pocket of her bag.

"And if you want to touch me, with the same hand that touched a bird? You'll use some hand sanitizer, Castle."

He smirks, challenges even as he obeys, "Where's the girl who spent weekends camping with her dad, uh? Did you have hand sanitizer then?"

"As a matter of fact, I didn't. But I also didn't have an expert in Forensic Science for a best friend, who showed me scientific articles about how birds are the worse disease carriers after rats."

Rick considers, considers some more, and nods like he's conceding the point. Ha. Triumph tastes lovely in her mouth as she watches him rub his hands with the sanitizer, then put the bottle back in her bag.

His cool fingers are on her neck before she can see it coming, light and seducing, lifting her chin so he can tease her lips with his, run his tongue across the sore spot she so often worries. A soft moan escapes Kate's control; desire springs in her belly, pulsates in her veins.

"I'm allowed to touch you now?" He murmurs against her skin, a smile in his voice.

She slides a hand through his hair, holding him in place as she steps closer and besieges his mouth, his smiling, hot, welcoming mouth, her own body at home against his.

He doesn't seem to need more of an answer. His fingers curl at her sides, pinkies venturing under her shirt to meet sensitive skin, and Kate jerks back, suddenly breathless. Not fair, how he does that.

"Let's go back," she suggests - rasps - because all she can think of now is that large bed waiting for them, Castle's weight shifting over her in the darkness and the burn of his lips, of his teeth -

"Yeah," he agrees with a dark, sly smile, and she gets the feeling he knows *exactly* what she's thinking about.

In this particular case... Nope. She really doesn't mind.


	6. Chapter 6

The cut on Castle's forearm stops bleeding quickly enough. He keeps pressing his tissue to it, though, because he's noticed that Kate often glances at him, as if to check that he's okay. It's a superficial wound – the only impressive thing about it is the length, starting at his wrist and running halfway to his elbow – but he's certainly going to milk it for all it's worth.

He so rarely gets to see her worried. At least, not over something so small. Not over something he can make fun of. He's *so* going to use this against her.

Somewhere close by, in the woods, he can hear an owl hooting. Owls are probably the only birds he's able to tell from their song (and yes, well, maybe Harry Potter has something to do with it). The summer night is warm, but not overly so, and the sky is alight with stars above them.

Castle has got to admit that so far, all of Kate's ideas have turned out rather brilliantly. He's slowly won over by the whole thing, that backpacking honeymoon that he initially sneered at. Tonight only proves his point: if it had been up to him, they'd have stayed holed up in their room. But instead they went out, watched a gorgeous sunset, rescued a baby bird, and Kate volunteered some information about those camping trips with her dad and her uncle.

And this is infinitely more valuable than sex, although it pains him to say so.

His wife is silent on the way back, but she's keeping too close for him to wonder if she's mad. Rick smiles.

"Come on, admit it," he says suddenly, his voice light and teasing.

Kate's head jerks to him; he's roused her from her thoughts.

"Admit what?" She asks, her brow furrowing.

"You wanted to keep it. That's why you're all quiet and maudlin."

The confusion on her face only increases. "Keep what?"

For a detective, she's not doing a terrible job of putting two and two together, he thinks amusedly. But he doesn't say it out loud, preferring to build the suspense. He waits until she rolls her eyes at him – it doesn't take long – before he offers with a grin, "You wanted to keep the bird. The great Detective Beckett wanted a little baby bird to take care of."

She huffs out a laugh, and seems vaguely surprised at herself.

"Yeah, right, Castle. Jeez, you've seen right through me. I was *dying* to have a little flying rat to cuddle with during my honeymoon. I mean, who wouldn't dream of it, really?"

"You wanted to name it and bring it back to New York with us –"

"I'm sure *you* had a name picked already. And stop projecting."

He hooks two fingers through the belt loops of her shorts and pulls her close, so he can wind an arm around her slim shoulders. Kate shoots him an interrogating look, but she lets him.

"Wanna know what the names were?" He murmurs enticingly to her ear.

He's fairly certain that her shivering has nothing to do with the outside temperature.

"Sure, Rick," she answers with a too heavily painted lack of interest. "Lay it on me."

"Well, of course, we could have called it something book-related. Like Pigwidgeon. Or, hey, Roach! That would have been pretty hilarious. Roach, for a bird."

"Referencing your own books, uh? Goodness, Castle, that ego of yours reaches new heights every day."

"Hey, now. Be nice," he pouts, squeezing her shoulder.

She looks at him with laughing eyes. "So you'd rather have me be nice than have me be sincere?"

He makes a face at her. "Kate."

She's laughing for good now. "All right, all right. Keep going with your bird names," she says, rolling her eyes perfunctorily.

"Thank you. So, what was I saying? Ah. Roach." He wiggles an eyebrow at her. "Probably not the best name, I'll admit. No, I have something better. Far better. Karma."

"Karma?" Kate echoes, her voice charged with irony. "Why not 'fate"?"

He regards her with patronizing amusement. "I'm disappointed, Kate. I thought you, of all people, would know the difference between fate and karma. Believing in fate means believing that our lives are written for us in advance, and that no matter what we do, we can't really change our destinies. Which is slightly depressing. While believing in karma –"

"– means believing that what you get in your present life is the reward or punishment for whatever you did in your former lives. I'm not that ignorant, Castle."

He smiles, signalling his full agreement. He just likes to titillate her, if only because she's so beautiful with her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyebrows arched defensively.

"So, Karma? That's your best offer?"

"Yes, but not for the reason you just suggested."

"What do you mean?" She inquires, curiosity lighting her eyes in that way that always leaves him breathless. "What other meaning is there to karma?"

"No other meaning," he answers elusively, watching with delight as her face scrunches up in reflection. Kate's brain is what he fell in love with, after all, once he got over the shock of her haunting good looks.

"K for Kate?" She asks tentatively after a handful of seconds. His smart, stunning wife.

Richard hums in encouragement, his mouth curving into a smile. He times her, knowing exactly how fast she'll figure out that A stands for Alexis, and R for Rick, and M for Martha –

"Technically," he says, still looking at her, "it should have been Karmj, with a J. You know, for your dad. But Karmj is not exactly the easiest thing to pronounce, and Karma was close enough…"

His next words, whatever they were, stay stuck in his mouth because Kate has averted her gaze and turned away a little. He only sees part of her now.

"Kate?"

He hasn't said anything wrong, has he? He reviews their conversation, frantic. He thought Karma was a good idea. He's always been a family guy, and she's part of his family now, and so is her dad…

Oh, wait. Is that it? Is she uncomfortable with the family thing? She didn't seem like she was before, and she asked Alexis to be one of her bridesmaids, but –

A gentle squeeze on his fingers interrupts his jumbled thoughts. He finds his wife looking at him from the corner of her eye, a wry little smile on her lips.

"Stop freaking out," she advises, proving once again how well she knows him. "I'm good. You didn't say anything wrong."

He didn't? Than why are the dark depths of her eyes glittering, blurred with something she rarely, if ever, lets him see?

"But?" He prompts, anxious to hear all of it.

"But nothing, Castle," Kate shoots back quickly, her voice surprisingly low. "You're sweet."

Life is funny, isn't it? Those words, when spoken by Gina, a few years ago, left him with a sour taste in his mouth, a taste that he wasn't even been able to erase by kissing his ex-wife. They made him feel helpless, made him realize that he could never completely close the gap that stood between him and Gina. That he would never be what she needed.

But hearing them fall from Kate's lips today? It's quite the opposite. Kate means it as a compliment, strange as it seems – he can feel it, knows it in his bones. It's a compliment, instead of a statement quietly hinting at his limitations.

He realizes he's beaming, but he can't do anything to help it. He laces his fingers with Kate's, and brings her hand to his mouth, kissing it slowly, gently.

Maybe she understands what it means for him; or maybe she's still working on reining in her own emotion – either way, she doesn't shake him off, but simply abandons her hand to his touch.

This is exactly why their marriage is going to work. Until today, he's always hated being called sweet. Most people mean 'weak' when they say sweet, or they're trying to make up for the flaws of whomever they're talking about. "She's not very attractive, but oh, she's *really* sweet," they'll say, or, "He's not the brightest tool in the shed, but he's a sweet little guy."

No, Richard Castle doesn't take kindly to being called sweet. But Kate's meaning is completely different. She *likes* this about him. He's not saying she doesn't find it a bit ridiculous at times (hell, even he does), but she likes it. She told him once that it was good for her, being reminded that pure, untainted kindness exists in the world, when her job gets her to see the darkest aspects of the human psyche.

Kate makes "sweet" sound like a badge of honor that he should wear proudly. And he loves her for it.

* * *

><p>When they reach the chambre d'hôtes, his wife's fingers slip away from his. She gestures for him to be quiet as she reaches for the key, turns it into the lock.<p>

The lights are still on in the entrance, but the rest of the house is silent, so he guesses that a few of the occupants, if not all, must have gone to bed already. It's a little before ten. He sees Kate head for the stairs, snags her wrist to stop her.

"Kate," he whispers, nodding toward the door on their right. "Food in the dining-room, isn't that what she said?"

His wife gives him that close-lipped smile, amusement mingled with something like admiration (because he understood what Jocelyne said?). "It is, Rick. I'm just getting something for your arm. You can heat up the food in the meantime. Although, to be honest, I'm not that hungry after those strawberries."

He considers her with mock consternation. "Full with only strawberries, woman? You have to be kidding me."

"Well, not everyone has a bottomless stomach like you, _man_. I'll just be a minute," she adds, and brushes her lips to his cheek before she disappears up the stairs, her step light and sure like a wild mountain goat.

He has to mentally shake himself before his feet can take him into the dining-room. There's a kind note for them on the table, saying their plates are in the fridge, and that breakfast tomorrow morning is between eight and ten. Castle appreciates the old-fashioned handwriting, the harmonious curves of the l's and h's.

Curious, he ventures into the kitchen, peers into the fridge. The plates are easy to find, covered with microwaves lids. They're filled with an assortment of vegetables that he wants to call ratatouille, and something that looks like baby rice-cereal. Uh. He'd never have thought of eating this with vegetables. But Castle is curious, and rather open-minded when it comes to food (the smorelets are a blatant example of how much he likes to experiment).

He's just put the first one into the microwave when he feels Kate at his back, a cherry-scented ghost.

"Found what you wanted?" He asks without turning, still making sure he's timed the thing correctly.

"I can never surprise you," she says, her voice flat. Is that a hint of disappointment he can hear? It makes him smile, and he seeks her eyes with his.

"Believe me, Kate. You surprise me constantly."

She gives him a reluctant half-smile. "Not what I meant, and you know it. I can never sneak out on you."

"Ah, that. Well, you should have learned to live with that by now. The way you move, the way you breathe, the way you smell – they're too unique, Kate. It's impossible not to notice you when you walk into a room."

She rolls her eyes at him. His grin only widens.

"Too cheesy?"

She chooses to ignore him, demanding instead that he show her his arm. Castle obeys, willing and pleasantly surprised. When Kate said she'd get something for his cut, he assumed that he'd be the one to apply it. He didn't picture Kate attentively examining his forearm, Kate pouring a dollop of antiseptic cream in her hand and running a deft, cream-topped finger along the red line that starts at his wrist.

It's simply not what his wife does. But apparently she's making an exception tonight, acting out one of his nurse fantasies – cool, light fingers working over his arm. The care, the concentration she puts into it fascinate him; they make him more than a little hot.

Kate tending to his injury, in a deserted kitchen. Oh, man.

"There," she whispers, seeming hesitant to let go of him.

"Thank you," he rasps, his voice huskier than he expected. His body is yearning for hers in a primal, irresistible way; he steps forward, unable to help himself.

She lifts her eyes to his, and arches a graceful eyebrow.

"I thought you were hungry."

"I am," he answers, and he trusts his eyes to convey that burning feeling in his guts, the tight hand of need clutching his heart. She swallows; he follows hungrily the smooth, beautiful line of her neck as she does.

"Well," Kate says laughingly, her voice a caress. "You can't have food *and* me at the same time, Rick. Have to choose."

He hopes it's obvious what he will choose, in that case. If it's not, he'll have to show her – oh, he's looking forward to it.

Alas, the microwave chooses this moment to signal itself, its beep-beep echoing in the kitchen. Kate takes a step back, her attention flying back to their surroundings.

"What's that smell?" She asks, taking a deep breath and clearly enjoying the result.

Damn.

"That would be our dinner," Castle admits, resigned. He's been frustrated all day; he guesses he can take one more hour. Delayed gratification, and all that.

"It smells heavenly," she exclaims. "Well that decides it. Food first, Castle."

He saw it coming; but it doesn't mean he has to be happy about it. He grunts his agreement anyway, and his wife turns her twinkling eyes, her blinding smile to him.

"Don't worry," she whispers, tantalizingly close to his mouth. "You can still have me later."

Oh, he damn well intends to. Still – he's not against getting confirmation of it.

Not when it means her warm breath on his skin, her hand brushing his shoulder as she walks past.

She's going to be the end of him.


	7. Chapter 7

"Oh," Kate breathes through a mouthful of deliciousness. She and Castle are sitting in the dining room, on opposite sides of the table; their knees brush occasionally, but right now all she can focus on is her plate's contents.

Vegetables have never been quite her thing – she likes them well enough, thinks they're a nice accompaniment for a meat dish, but she'd never eat them without anything else. At least, not until now. She chews as slowly as she can before swallowing with a twinge of regret and saying, "This is _wonderful_."

She takes another bite, closes her eyes in pleasure. This is incredible. No words can carry the delicious taste of the tomato and courgette and eggplant mixed together, melting on her tongue. If someone had told her it could taste like this –

A sound of complete approval escapes her, and through the haze of bliss she hears a growl coming from Castle. She reluctantly slides her eyelids open again, not quite ready to leave her little paradise of food.

Exasperation is warring with love in his blue eyes. Dark blue eyes. Oh. Right.

"You've got to stop making noises like that," he declares very seriously. "Or else I won't be liable for whatever happens next. Which might involve you and that carpet" – he nods to the floor – "getting to know each other on a more intimate basis."

Kate cannot keep a sly smile off her lips, try as she might. It turns her on, it does, when he uses such a detached tone to detail the dirty things he wants to do to her. Last time –

Oh, no, she's not thinking about last time. If she does, she'll never manage to finish that gourmet meal; and she really wants to savor it. So she refrains from making any litigious sounds and, too soon, her plate is empty.

Castle must have enjoyed his too, despite his complaining, because it is perfectly clean by the time Kate finishes hers.

"I'll go get dessert," he offers, jumping to his feet and stacking up their plates.

"There's dessert?" his wife asks disbelievingly. God, she has no room left in her stomach for food of any kind.

"Of course there's dessert," Castle laughs. "Didn't you see what that woman was like? I'd be surprised if she ever cooks a meal that doesn't include three courses."

He disappears to the kitchen, leaving Kate alone with her dilemma. This ratatouille, or whatever it was, just made it into the top ten of the best foods she's ever had; how could she not want to taste a dessert out of the same hands?

She's still torn when Rick comes back, holding two small glasses. Or well, they look like tiny glasses. Kate has seen those before in restaurants; they're _verrines_, she thinks. Apparently, it's quite the fashion in France – a combination of unexpected ingredients, either salty or sugary, set in a kind of jello and chilled until served.

She wants to sigh in relief; she can eat something that small and light. Cake or anything solid would be too much, but this seems made of yoghurt (or maybe ice-cream?), berries, and some unknown ingredients.

"There are more in the fridge, if we want," Castle comments with a small smile, as if he enjoys tempting her.

He certainly does. But turnabout is fair play, she supposes.

The_ verrines_ turn out to be every bit as delectable as the main course; Kate finishes hers in record time, and almost considers getting another. Almost. But she rests a hand on her belly – it was flat, once upon a time, wasn't it? – and this puts an end to her reflections.

She's eaten enough for tonight.

Her husband, of course, doesn't impose such restrictions on himself, and he happily saunters back into the kitchen to get himself another one. He gobbles it like a kid, taking as much food as he can at once, and when he finally rests against the back of his chair, satiated, Kate eyes the drop of yoghurt that has landed between his nose and his lower lip.

Did he do that on purpose?

On purpose or not, she is unable to resist: she eases to her feet as gracefully as possible – she feels so incredibly heavy – and circles the table to get at Castle. He watches her approach with dark, aroused eyes (on purpose, no doubt) and lets her throw a leg over his and settle in his lap, their faces only a whisper away.

Kate brushes her nose against Rick's, darts her tongue out to catch that white fleck of yoghurt. *His* tongue meets hers before it can retreat, and the moist, warm contact is too much for her – she kisses him, deep, dirty, a groan vibrating within her chest. She sucks on his lower lip, explores the inside of his mouth, alternating a slow, languorous pace with a more direct, aggressive approach.

Some part of her is aware of Rick's hands, the light caresses at her sides, the firmer touch under her breasts, his thumbs coming up to –

She jerks under his exploration, but Castle doesn't let her go far; his lips pursue hers, as determined and demanding as hers were only seconds ago. Her own hands are cupping his skull, her fingers clutching around locks of copper hair: he doesn't seem to mind.

She abandons his mouth for the side of his neck, and he whimpers, tightens his hold on her. His body is hard and hot against her; Kate finds herself responding to that, to the heart she can feel hammering inside his chest, the gasps he lets out when she sucks more intently.

There's no space left between them; she's pressing every inch of her body against his, undulates her hips –

"Ah, Kate," he breathes, a strangled warning that dies on his lips. She's not listening, single-minded as she is; Castle is the only thing in her mind, the divinity that the blood boiling in her veins is singing a hymn to.

She titillates his ear with her teeth, licks at the shell of his ear – her husband's hips buck against her.

"Kate, bedroom," he growls.

Bedroom. Oh, right. Cold realization trickles into her brain and Kate yanks herself from him, sits straighter, taking in the dining room's red wallpaper, the door open to the kitchen at her left. She lets that consciousness of their surroundings settle, ashamed that she could even forget about their not being home. Not being alone.

Castle is watching her with an expression that could be a smirk, except for the tenderness in his eyes. Damn, she must be blushing. Kate averts her own gaze, tucks her hair behind her ears. Right.

"Hey," he says, attracting her attention by rubbing circles on her thighs with his thumbs. "Nothing wrong with getting a little carried away."

His voice hasn't lost all of its aroused roughness; the sound makes her shiver in spite of herself. She eases off him, back to her own feet.

Nothing wrong? Anyone could have walked in on them. Including the blond children they saw earlier. How many times as a child did Kate herself go to the kitchen in the middle of the night, because she couldn't sleep, or was thirsty?

Yeah, not her best judgment.

"Come on, Kate. No harm done," Castle pleads softly.

She meets his eyes; a smile sneaks its way onto her face, because he knows her so well. She leans forward again, her hands finding the arms of his chair, crowding him. She gives him one more liquid kiss, their mouths fusing together like they belong with each other, and rests her forehead against his.

"Bedroom," she murmurs, the weight of certainty settling in her chest, happiness running through her veins. "You have ten minutes, Castle."

And she runs out of the room without looking back.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes, uh?<p>

He doesn't need ten minutes to wash their plates and glasses and put it all away. But he still lingers, examines the contents of the fridge with a distracted eye, tours the dining room without paying the slightest attention to the decor.

Kate asked for ten minutes, and hell, she's going to get them. He kind of hopes that she will spend most of those impatiently waiting for him in the large, comfortable bed, but well – this is Kate Beckett.

If he doesn't show up on time, she'll probably grab a book and do without him.

Or maybe not, he thinks, remembering gleefully how she straddled him, nipped at his jaw. After all this time, even with the ring on his left hand, it still amazes him. That she loves him back. Wants him back.

And not only does she want him back, but she matches his passion with hers, gives as good as she gets. His wife. His chest swells with a certainly misplaced but nonetheless delightful pride every time he so much as thinks the word.

Has it been ten minutes already?

Ugh. Only eight. He glances at the clock, at the stairs he can make out through the open door.

Oh, screw it. Two minutes aren't gonna make a difference anyway. He turns off the light downstairs, tries not to run towards the staircase. He fails, of course, and a jolt of pain in his knee lets him know that he overestimated the distance.

Castle hisses, feels in the dark for the stinging spot, and has to swallow a yelp when he finds it. He's being a baby; this is what Kate would say, and she'd be right.

Kate. He disregards the knee and hurries up, careful to put more weight on his right leg, the one that doesn't have raw, screaming nerve endings.

There's a very modest ray of light filtering under the door of their room; for some reason, Castle's breath catches in his throat, as if he were eighteen years old, as if this were his wedding night.

Well, no. He can remember their wedding night quite clearly, and not without a shiver of pleasure. Ah. Their wedding night. He forces the memory back, still stupidly taken with that ray of light, with the woman waiting for him behind that closed door.

Calm down, Rick. Breathe. He needs to be cool, in control. No one wants a teenage boy to make love to them. Relax. Right.

When he thinks he has it, thinks he can handle it, he pushes the door open silently, steps inside.

And then gasps in wonder.

Candles. Candles everywhere. This is why the light under the door was so soft and welcoming: there is no other light on. The walls are bathed in shadow, even though the candles are trying their best.

And Kate… Kate is on the bed, lying on her side, facing him. The curve of her hip, the dip of her long leg hypnotizes him; she's wearing a short, short nightgown, lace and some black material that is quite revealing. Her face is only half lit by the fluctuating flames; her eyes look larger, darker, framed by those long eyelashes and the gentle shadows that take up the right side of her.

Gorgeous.

"Kate."

The words won't get past his dry throat. He can't tell her what it means, how beautiful she is, the gratitude that threatens to strangle his poor heart.

This is for him, all for him.

Because he's a romantic idiot.

Well, if he's speechless, at least he still has action at his disposal. He steps closer, takes the time to unbutton his shirt, throw it onto the chair.

Kate watches him intently, her eyes bright, the corner of her mouth curving into her cheek.

He takes another step, sheds his shorts this time. The ruffle of fabric on the floor seems loud in the silence; the only other thing he can hear is her breathing. And his stammering heart.

Then she makes that sound in her throat, part amusement, part arousal – that sound he loves. Makes him want to lunge at her. But no. No. He knows the powers of slow, the sweet rewards it brings.

He'll take it slow.

"What did you do to your knee, Castle?" She asks, and her voice is velvet in the night, so soft.

He looks down at his own leg. His left knee is an angry red, even in the candlelight.

"Ah. A rushed encounter with a too eager step," he shrugs.

The smile on her face triggers the same response from his own. It's always like that. She bites her lower lip, gives him a coy look.

"Were you rushing here to see me?" She teases, even though she knows the answer.

"You know I was," he growls back, and he's so close now. He can see the goose bumps on her arms. It only takes one more step, and he's touching her.

"Cold?" He murmurs, running a finger along her almost naked form. Her eyes slide closed under his touch.

"Mmm, just waiting for you," she whispers back, and then opens her eyes to say playfully, "to warm me up."

He's not about to turn down such an invitation, especially when she scoots to make room for him in that large bed. What was this about taking it slow? He can't resist the smooth column of her neck, that delicious place where it meets the roundness of her ear.

Kate arches against him, moans in surprise. Her hand curls on his waist.

God, those sounds she makes.

"We don't know how thick the walls are," he says with a wicked grin. "We probably should try to keep it down, huh? Think you can do quiet, Kate?" he challenges, merely to see her reaction.

She glares at him for a half second before she answers with a too-sweet smile, "Sure, Castle. I can just bite whenever the urge to scream becomes too intense."

Ah. He's sort of deserved that, but that doesn't help with the sudden flight of blood from his brain. "You," he says, and he steals her mouth because there's no better way to say it. He kiss is deep and a little rough, a punishment for the laugh he felt trembling on her lips.

When he lets go, even though they're both breathless, she taunts, "The writer is without words?"

Evil, evil woman. He drops his head to lick at her collarbone, trail his lips along those fine lines, jaw, neck, shoulder.

"Words are not all that matters," he whispers against her pumping artery.

She doesn't contradict him.


	8. Chapter 8

A blow to her ribs jerks Kate awake; she must have been at the end of her sleep cycle, because when she opens her eyes, she's focused, ready, even though it feels like it's the middle of the night.

It only takes her a moment to realize that Castle is responsible for waking her. He is dreaming, quite obviously: incoherent, mumbled words fall from his lips at regular intervals, and he is moving somewhat restlessly, rolling to one side and then the other.

"Rick", she murmurs, pushing his hair back from his forehead with a gentle hand. He stills for a while, seems to settle down. Kate lets her index finger trace his hairline, moved in spite of herself by the childish frown on his otherwise sleep-slack face.

Just when she's about to curl back on her side of the bed, Rick's hand slaps against her thigh, surprising the hell out of her. She manages to keep from yelping, but she's had enough.

"Castle," she says a little louder, trying to wake him by shaking his shoulder.

It only seems to increase his discomfort; he shakes his head, eyes still closed, his mumbling growing in volume. Whatever he's dreaming about, it's not making him happy. The detective narrowly avoids getting elbowed in the face, and she grabs his wrist, easing herself on top of him to catch his other arm. Now that he can't move, he gets even more agitated, the sounds escaping his mouth finally turning intelligible.

"No," he gasps desperately, "No. Don't, please… Kate," he almost sobs, and her heart twists painfully in response. She's never seen him like this before. Except maybe – except maybe when she got shot at Roy's funeral, and she doesn't want to think about it. She's grateful that her memories of that day are all blurred together.

She grinds her body into his, like she can serve as a human shield against his nightmares, and presses her lips to the hollow of his neck, his jaw, his mouth.

"Castle," she whispers urgently. "Castle, wake up. It's just a dream. Come on, Rick. Wake up. Wake up for me."

She feels the moment when he emerges from sleep to semi-awareness; he stops struggling against her, and she's close enough to hear his sharp intake of air as he blinks stupidly.

"Kate," he acknowledges after a moment, understanding mixing with relief in his voice. He holds her close, his arms tight around her, their noses gently brushing together. "Kate."

She lets him take comfort in her, breathing him in and hugging back, her lips wandering from his chin to his cheekbone and back.

When his breathing slows down, she tentatively asks, "Wanna talk about it?"

She waits for an answer, in vain.

"Rick?" she says again, more forceful. "I've been sleeping with you for the best part of last year, and I've never seen you like this."

"The best part of last year, uh?" He hedges with a trace of his usual humor. "What stamina you have, detective."

"Castle."

He sighs. He's not much better than she is at admitting weakness; he'd much rather talk his way out of it. It's too bad – Kate is certainly not going to let him do it this time.

"It's not a regular occurrence," he says reluctantly, his voice low.

"But it's happened before?" She pushes, determined.

His silence is the only answer she needs.

"How often, Castle?"

Funny how, when she's interrogating him, his last name comes spontaneously to her lips.

"Just a couple times," he answers, jaw clenched.

"But never when I'm here."

"No," he breathes softly. "Having you nearby usually…helps."

She takes a few seconds to register that, lets the fact sink in. "So you didn't plan on telling me?"

Rick shifts uncomfortably under her. "What's the big deal? I have nightmares. I'm sure you do too."

"Actually, I don't," Kate answers slowly. "But we all have different ways to cope. I dream of my mom sometimes."

"Good dreams?"

"Yeah. They mostly are," she says thoughtfully, leaving out how nostalgic those dreams leave her in the morning, because she's aware that Castle is trying to shift the focus of their conversation to her. "What was yours about?" She inquires suddenly, hoping to catch him off-balance.

"Ah. Nothing, uh, worth telling about."

"Do I have to twist your ear?"

He laughs reluctantly, sighs again. "Something about losing you. Over your mom's case."

She's not exactly surprised to hear this, but she isn't pleased.

"But it's over," she points out, her eyebrows knit together in puzzlement. "My mom's case is closed, Castle."

"I know," he whispers between gritted teeth.

"We're not at risk anymore."

"I know," he says again, and he won't offer anything else. Either she takes it, or she leaves it.

Kate chews on her lower lip, strangely reluctant to move past this. She knows, rationally, that nightmares are quite common, that most people have them – and maybe she does, too, and simply doesn't remember. But Castle's distress and his choked, misery-filled sounds are still echoing in her ears, wringing her heart.

She feels his hand splay over the back of her neck, feels him tug her gently into him. His lips are soft and entirely too gentle, a caress and an invitation and something else that she can't quite place, something that sends a cold rush of dread to her guts.

This isn't right, she thinks, but even as she does his hands move to her waist, to her ribs, purposeful, intent now, and she can't help the heat that flares inside her, can't help meeting his tongue with hers, not so much a battle as a dance, arousing, hypnotizing.

Her last thought, before Richard Castle takes over, is – they can talk tomorrow.

* * *

><p>When the soft morning light makes its way through the curtains, prods at Castle's eyelids, he groans and attempts to roll over, bury his face into the pillow. But there's a dead weight on his left side, pinning him into place. His ribs are protesting, now that he thinks of it; his upper arm feels numb.<p>

He opens a reluctant eye, and the sight that greets him is enough of a surprise to make his second eye follow suit.

Dark curls are splayed over his chest; he only catches glimpses of Kate, the sweep of dark lashes across a soft cheek, the tip of a nose.

Kate, snuggling with him. That's a first. He's drifted off to sleep before with her tucked into him (he has a feeling that it's her way to reward him when he's been *particularly* good), but he always finds her back on her side of the bed in the morning.

He doesn't think he's ever woken to find her so close. And she's asleep, too. Sound asleep. She's not doing it on purpose.

Amazing.

He doesn't dare breathe, let alone move; he closes his eyes, breathes deep, enchanted to find Kate's smell all over him, wanting to roll in it.

That's when his nightmare suddenly comes back to him, the dark, breathless feeling melting into understanding as he remembers the rest, the comfort of Beckett's slim body against his, her questions, his evasions.

Ah. Maybe that's the reason she stayed close.

His hand rises of its own accord, brushes her hair back, tangles in her dark locks. So soft. He sighs, the reality of her almost painful, too good. This is the cause of his nightmares; he knows it.

The slight chance that this is all a dream. And even if it isn't, the idea that he could lose it, could lose her – like he almost did over her mom's case…

The idea that she might grow tired of him. Might realize that marrying him was a big mistake, that agreeing to marry him in the first place was nothing more than a spur of the moment decision, triggered by her uncertainty, her need for comfort.

He wishes he could think of something else, wishes he could reroute the train of his thoughts, send it to a happier direction.

But his mind is stuck. No room for anything else but that day.

The day when they closed her mother's case. The day when she said she'd be his wife.

* * *

><p>February, 2012.<p>

Castle watches as the FBI agents, along with some NYPD detectives, take away the man responsible for Johanna Beckett's murder. Dimitri Johnson, his current American passport says. They might never learn his real name – they have a good twenty to pick from. All of them fake, no doubt.

The feeling running through the writer's veins is relief, pounding, overwhelming relief, because even though Esposito is getting his forearm bandaged (grazed by a bullet) and Ryan is trying to convince the medics that he doesn't need to spend the night in the hospital (it's just a bump, not a concussion), it's over, *over*, and no one is dead.

No one but Roy Montgomery, that is.

He turns his head to Kate, and the relief freezes in his stomach, turns to icy dread. She's no longer at his side; she's walking back to her car, her shoulders stiff, her step brisk. He must have missed something.

She should be happy. Right?

Following her is more of an instinct than a conscious decision; he catches up with her as she puts her hand on the door handle, stops her. He hears her sharp intake of breath and it hurts, because he thought they were past this, past the point when he couldn't touch her without her tensing.

Apparently not.

"Kate."

He isn't sure what else to say, or how to say it, but she does turn to face him, however slow and reluctant.

"I'm fine, Castle."

Of course, that's not what her body language says. He takes a step towards her, sees her spine straighten as she goes still, her defences up against him.

He hates this.

She gives him a pleading look, and it unsettles him long enough for her to speak again.

"I'll be fine, I promise, Rick."

Rick. Her secret weapon. He's helpless against it.

"I just need some time alone. Just tonight. You can come and see me tomorrow. Okay?"

He wants to argue that tomorrow is too far away, that it's *now* that she needs someone, a punching bag, a shoulder to cry on – he'll be anything she needs, anything, as long as she allows him…

But then she's kissing his cheek, his lips, fresh and cool and removed, but kissing him all the same, and he's at a loss. She's moving away already, her mouth too far, out of reach, and the words slip out, escape the leash of his control.

"I love you, Kate."

He hasn't said it since Roy's funeral, not even when she let him in her bed for the first time, not even that time, a few weeks ago, when she nearly got shot and he thought for a second his world was going to end. He hasn't felt confident enough to put himself out there again, expose himself to rejection, even now that he knows what her skin tastes like, what her voice sounds like when she comes apart in his arms.

But it's not about confidence now – it's about necessity, about the burning need he feels for her to know, though he suspects that she already does.

Kate freezes, her eyes deep and dark with that knowledge, shimmering in the parking lot's artificial light.

She's so beautiful.

She smiles a weary, hesitant smile, lifts a hand to caress his cheek, soft, barely there.

"Tomorrow, Castle," she says, and he wants to believe that it's a promise he hears in her voice, not a gentle let down.

Please, let it not be a gentle let down.

She let him into her life, into her bed – this has got to mean something, right?

It has to.

But as he watches her drive away, watches the familiar shape of the Crown Vic disappear, he has to press his fists against his legs, remind himself to breathe. He doesn't like this.

He doesn't like this at all.

* * *

><p>He manages to keep himself from calling for the next three hours.<p>

Alexis is at the loft when he gets home – one of her classes got cancelled because the teacher is sick – and he gets to tell her everything, to feel her slump in relief against him before she hugs him fiercely.

"Oh, dad," she sighs, and he hears everything in it, how worried she's been, the faint echo of the screams after the gunshot last spring, in that sunlit cemetery.

"I know, sweetheart."

"It's over? Really, really over? You promise? They won't try to kill you or Detective Beckett again?"

His little girl, and he's the one who did this to her. Castle's throat is tight, painful.

"Not those guys, Alexis. Those guys are done. But you know Detective Beckett's job holds a certain amount of risk to it."

"Yeah, yeah, of course –" she steps back from him, swiftly wipes her cheeks. "I know. But that –"

That she's learned to live with. The writer feels ashamed of himself and proud of her at the same time. His daughter, almost an adult. A young woman.

"So… You caught the man responsible for her mother's death, right? Kate's mom – she finally got justice."

Wow. When Alexis says it like that, it sounds so – surreal. Over. It's over.

"Yeah," he exhales, a little giddy now. A disbelieving laugh rolls out of his lips, shakes him.

Over. God, this is amazing. Closure for Kate, finally. He wants to close his eyes in bliss.

His daughter smiles, but she doesn't participate in his nervous hilarity. She looks…stunned.

"That's…wow," she lets out, leaning against the couch. "I can't imagine – how long has it been? Twelve years?"

The question sobers him quickly enough.

"Thirteen. Wait, fourteen, actually."

"Fourteen?" Alexis echoes, shock rippling in her eyes. "And after all this time… You finally caught the guy. Jeez. She must be so – relieved."

The last sparkles of his joy vanish without warning. He thought she'd be relieved too, but he can't forget the look in her eyes when she told him tomorrow, that look of loss and longing and confusion.

A lot of Kate Beckett's personality is built upon her mom's murder, arranged and organized so that she could focus on finding the people responsible. She's more than her mother's death – he knows this, knows it with absolute certainty, but suddenly he's not sure she does.

He gets this terrible image of Kate alone in her apartment, hunched on her couch, silent tears streaming down her cheeks; and the more he tries to push it away, the more it clings, malignant, toxic, like a poisonous plant wrapping its tentacles around his brain.

He reaches for his phone, but stills with his thumb hovering over the screen, unsure.

"Did she tell you not to call?" His daughter asks hesitantly.

He almost jumps, startled by the sound of Alexis's voice, surprised that his dark thoughts let him forget he's not alone.

"She did," he says, looking at his daughter for advice.

Alexis presses her lips together, pushes herself off the couch and wraps an arm around his neck.

"I think you should call her anyway," she whispers into his ear after a few seconds.

His little girl has always been smarter than him, hasn't she? And yet he wavers as Alexis grabs her jacket, then her bag, and tells him she is going to meet Paige before her next class.

"Have fun, sweetie," he answers half-heartedly. The door closes, and he's left alone with the phone staring back at him.

Kate said to leave her alone today.

It's just one day. He can do it.

The thing is, he doesn't want to.

So he presses the call button.

* * *

><p>"You've reached Detective Kate Beckett. Please leave a message."<p>

For the seventh time, Castle hangs up before the proverbial beep, the knot in his chest growing ever tighter. The worst thing is, he remembers perfectly the day when she recorded this message.

He was teasing her all day because she'd gotten a new phone, and had to set up her voice mail – he offered dozens of suggestions, crazy ones, funny ones, sexy ones, only to have her record this simple, dry, unemotional line before she left the precinct.

He stared, offended, indignant, and she gave him this sexy, triumphant little grin that she *knew* (had to know) drove him crazy.

"Straight to the point, Castle," she said. "That's what people want."

The memory of that night, of her smile, of her dark eyes glimmering in the precinct lights – it's killing him.

He *cannot* help himself; he calls her again.

Come on, Beckett. Come on.

Pick up the damn phone.

Please.

Please, Kate.

But it rings and rings again. You've reached Detective Kate Beckett…This time he hangs up without listening to the whole message, because the very sound of her voice, her cool, confident, beautiful voice, hurts.

* * *

><p>When she doesn't answer on the eighth time, he can't help himself anymore. He grabs his jacket, his keys, and runs down the stairs, hails the first cab he finds.<p>

And gives the driver her address.

As they get closer to her place, he scans the streets, eyes open for her Crown Vic. He almost misses it, because the cabbie brakes suddenly to avoid running over a reckless old woman, curses under his breath. Castle's attention is on the close call, and it's only sheer luck that he catches a glimpse of Beckett's car at the edge of his vision, a block away from her apartment.

His stomach knots tighter. She's home, then.

Why is she not answering her phone?

Once they reach her building, Castle throws a couple bills at the guy, tells him to keep the change, and dashes out of the car like a guy running for his life.

Maybe that's what it is.

He goes straight for the stairs – waiting for the elevator is out of the question – and stops a floor down from hers, a little breathless.

This is not the way to go about this. He's only going to freak her out if he shows up like a madman, babbling about her not answering when she's probably just silenced her phone or something.

He waits a couple minutes to get his breathing under control, runs a hand through his hair, nervous and unsure now.

Damn. He's ridiculous, isn't he? Except –

Except these are exceptional circumstances. Except they finally caught the man who ordered the hit on her mother, and instead of it bringing peace to her, it only seemed to make the burden on Kate's shoulders a heavier one.

He can't leave it alone. Can't leave *her* alone. God knows he's tried.

He walks up the last flight of stairs (no running, he tells himself sternly). When he's standing in front of her door, he takes a deep breath and knocks decidedly.

He's not sure what he's expecting, a sudden flash of lightning, the floor opening under his feet, or simply an angry Kate answering the door – but none of this happens.

In fact, nothing happens at all.

Nothing. No scuffle of feet, no door opening, no sounds of TV in the background; it's like the place is empty. But he's seen her car. Where else would she be?

He knocks again.

"Kate?"

He pictures her curled up in bed, miserable and lost in her own world; his fist bangs harder against the solid wood. The pain in his knuckles doesn't really reach him.

"Kate. Open the door."

Settling for a different approach, Rick uncurls his fingers, presses his ear to the door. He holds his breath, listening carefully, but he can't hear a single thing. Doubt spreads inside him.

Out. She might be out. He knows she likes walking; she told him once that in the spring, when the weather's warm, she sometimes walks back from the precinct, even though it must take an hour. A good forty-five minutes at least.

Maybe she went to the cemetery, to visit her mother's grave. Wait, no. She'll have taken her car for that. (Castle investigated the matter and found out where her mother was buried about a year ago, even though he's never been there.)

She might be…at a bar. Drinking. His brow knits; he doesn't believe it for a second. Too many things wrong with that image.

He knocks again.

"Kate! Open up. Do I have to bang down your door again?"

Not a sound.

He sighs, rests his forehead against the door, as if it could get him closer to her. If only.

"Kate," he pleads in a softer voice. "Please don't shut me out. I need you. And I think you need me too." He's surprised at the boldness of his own words, but he doesn't amend them. "Just let me in. We'll deal with it together. We can do anything together, Kate."

And he believes that. If only she would let him in –

But silence answers him, and her name turns to ashes in his mouth.

His chest is so tight; the tears are pressing hard against his eyelids. He tries to convince himself that this isn't the end, because she said tomorrow, and maybe she just really needs that time alone…

Except he knows better. If she doesn't let him in now, after everything they've been through, if she doesn't need him now –

She never will.

And maybe that's what her closed door is telling him. Go away, Castle. We're through. I don't need you anymore.

A trembled, bitter laugh escapes him, and a tear rolls down his cheek. She never needed him. Kate Beckett doesn't need anyone. He's a fool.

Maybe she wants to put a tight lid on her mother's case, turn her back to it. It's over, and she doesn't want anything reminding her. And he, Rick Castle, is involved in that case. Knee-deep. Has been for a while now.

So he goes into the box, along with the case photos, the witnesses' statements. She's saying goodbye to him.

Despair suffocates him; all his words die on his lips as he struggles for air.

Kate, don't. No. Please, please…I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, open the damn door, Kate, you hear me, open –

He sucks in a rattled breath, pivots to put his back to the wall, slumps against it. His legs have turned traitors on him.

He should probably leave, give her what she wants, leave her in peace, but he doesn't even have that option right now.

He can only stay huddled on the floor, try to swallow his sobs in case she's listening. In case she comes out.

But he doesn't believe she will.

* * *

><p>Even when he's recovered his self-control, Castle can't bring himself to move. Moving is giving up. He's not sure what he's trying to accomplish by besieging her apartment, sitting in her corridor like a lost puppy; but he still won't move.<p>

After awhile, he hears footsteps in the stairs, and he stumbles to his feet, unwilling to appear the perfect illustration of pitiful to Kate's neighbours.

Except, it's not one of her neighbours. His heart in his mouth, he lets his eyes roam over the leather-clad figure of Kate Beckett, endless legs and messy dark hair, a crash helmet tucked under her graceful arm.

Kate. Kate as he's never seen her, a vision in those tight, tight clothes, hotter, better than any James Bond girl. Relief hits him like a tidal wave, makes him sway on his feet.

Bike. She took her bike. She wasn't home, wasn't ignoring him, wasn't –

God, he might cry again. He's so happy – deliriously happy – that he can disregard the wariness in her eyes when she sees him, disregard the guardedness of her stance.

Kate.

He watches her come closer in a daze, and then words are spilling from his mouth, so fast that he's not even sure what he's saying, something about calling her, about coming here. He hates the eagerness, the anxiety in his own voice, but he doesn't seem to be able to stop.

She lets him rant as she opens the door, not paying too much attention (thank God); and then she gives him a look that is not exactly an invitation, but is not a dismissal either. The next second, he's inside the door.

He sees her check her phone as she sheds her jacket, heads to the kitchen; he winces at the thought of his nine missed calls. But she doesn't comment, doesn't say a word.

Instead, she reaches inside a cabinet and pulls out two shot glasses, and a bottle. Vodka, he reads as he steps forward. Uh. Kate?

"Vodka, Rick?" She asks in a brisk tone, pouring before he's had time to answer.

She won't look at him.

His heart breaks a little.

She lifts the glass, and cracks appear in her mask of cold confidence. He sees the grief in her eyes, dark and wide, sees the way she swallows.

"To my mom," she says, and he hates the bitterness in her voice; the desperation underneath is killing him.

She downs her shot, reaches for the bottle; he stays her hand.

"Kate."

He doesn't know what to say. What is there to say? But he knows he won't stand by and watch this.

She shakes him off, her cool fingers sliding away from his, but she doesn't go for the vodka again. She just stands there, eyes on the floor, immobile in the middle of her kitchen.

He wants to pull her into him, and never let her go.

And yet he doesn't move. It's like her stillness is contagious.

"Kate," he pleads gently, love and concern and sadness swelling inside him, clogging up his throat. He'll do anything, anything –

She jerks into motion so fast that he has no time to react.

Her hands clutch the lapels of his jacket and draw him close, a little rough, a little desperate, before she attacks his mouth with hers. The bruising kiss distracts him against his will, speaking directly to his body and shutting off his brain. He knows what she's doing, and he's trying to gather the will power to push her away (so good) when she suddenly jumps back, as if something had bitten her. Rick's fairly certain he hasn't done any biting.

But Kate is holding something in her hands, a stunned, shocked look on her face. Castle's eyes finally sees what it is; it's like getting a cold shower. When she grabbed him, she must have –

The detective's fingers are clenched around a little blue box that he's been carrying in his inside pocket for the last week, his romantic – and stupid – self having been unwilling to part with it. Damn.

Her face is blank, unreadable, and Castle wishes he could close his eyes and go back in time, shut the ring in his drawer, forget about it. Not gonna happen now. And it's not like he's been meaning to ask her – at least, not that soon. He just…saw the ring, thought it'd be perfect for her. Bought it on a whim. Well, maybe it was a little more than a whim.

He does want her to be his wife. But he didn't mean to pressure her into it, certainly didn't want to scare her away. Like he seems to have.

He's always had lousy timing.

"What is this?" She asks after a moment. Even though they're no more than a whisper, the words seem to echo loudly in his ears. Her voice has that distant, faraway quality that he hates, that stands between them like an unbridgeable gap.

"It's just," he stutters, palms sweating, heart pounding. "It's nothing – I –" he huffs in frustration, furious at the way words always seem to desert him in time of need. Not now, he thinks, and he summons them imperiously, bends them to his will.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," he explains, calm and collected all of a sudden, unlike himself. "I didn't bring it here on purpose, Kate. I bought it for you, yes, but it was more of a…long-term investment."

He thinks he can see the corner of her mouth twitch, but he's not too sure. Kate's eyes are still trained on the box, in a fascinated, moth to the flame sort of way. Her fingers move slowly, almost like she's caressing the blue velvet, and with a sudden flick of her thumb, she pops it open.

Rick's lungs may have stopped functioning altogether. It's going to be an issue at some point.

She looks at the ring pensively, her head cocked to the side, and Castle wants to bounce or scream or…something. He doesn't know what's happening here. He's scared of the fierce, winding hope that flared to life within him when her fingers uncovered the engagement ring he bought. When he tries to tone it down, the fire just burns brighter.

He's an idiot.

"Ask me, Castle," she says suddenly, her dark green eyes finding his at last.

But it's no good, because he can't read them, can't decipher what he sees shining in there. And he's speechless anyway. He vaguely realizes how stupid he must look, staring at her with his mouth agape, and that hope – a raging inferno now, devouring his insides.

"Ask me," Kate insists, her face a concoction of stubbornness, authority, and… what's that, pleading? Kate Beckett doesn't plead.

His brain is a mess, fears colliding with half-formed sentences and attempts at making sense of all this; but somehow he finds his way to the area that language depends on, remembers how to use his tongue.

"Kate, I don't think – " Her hand stops him, warm and firm against his mouth. Her eyes glitter with something that looks like anger, but she doesn't have a right to be angry, not when she's springing stuff like that on him…

"I won't say it again," she says, detaching the words like she's trying to make him understand. Understand what? And here's that look on her face again, that strange mesh of determination and despair; it finally spurs him into action.

The question tumbles out of his mouth before he's given it conscious permission, all his carefully crafted proposals and his romantic declarations of love falling to the side because he just needs to know, needs it so bad that nothing else really matters in that moment.

"Will you - marry me?"

He can't do anything about the need in his voice, the disbelieving wonder in his heart, but Kate answers immediately.

"Yes."

Her tone is flat, emotionless, business-like, but he can see the unshed tears glistening at the back of her eyes, and boy, does it make up for it.

The author can't speak, can't move; wonder has taken his body over, tingling in his toes, swelling in his throat.

"Yes, Castle," she repeats, like he's too thick to have gotten it the first time. He feels something against his hand, looks down. She's trying to give him back the ring; his heart squeezes painfully before he understands what she wants.

Dazed, he takes the box, gently slides the silver band out of it and onto the finger that Kate is holding out for him.

She is holding out her finger for him, and her hand doesn't tremble. Her hand is sure. This – not her words, not the ring, but this – is what finally shakes him out of his trance, out of the frozen state his body has cowardly retreated to.

Richard smiles – no - beams at her, joy flooding him so suddenly that he would stagger if her bright eyes weren't still holding him up.

That feeling, knowing she's just agreed to be his wife, watching the shy, beautiful smile that lights up her face at last – it's like coming home. Only a thousand times better.

He doesn't know if he starts it, or if she does, but seconds later she's in his arms, fierce and passionate against him even as her mouth, her warm, soft mouth, yields under his.

And he loses himself in her, in the intoxicating feel of her body pressed to his, in the exhilarating knowledge that she just said yes.

That she'll be his wife.


	9. Chapter 9

The blanket of sleep slowly slides off Kate, awareness creeping upon her as her soft, warm pillow moves under her. Her eyes flutter open; she gradually comes to the realization that she's half-draped over Castle, something she *never* does.

Not quite awake yet, she rolls off him instinctively, but his hand pursues her, fingers splaying on her naked hip, gently digging into her flesh.

"Hi," she rasps, offering him a sleepy smile.

"Hey," he whispers.

His voice doesn't sound as cheerful as usual, but that might just be the early hour. Deep, deep rumble of a voice. Mmh. she likes early hours. She leans back into him, scatters light kisses across the hollow of his throat.

She feels him suck in a shaky breath, but that's the only reaction he gives her. No encouragement.

She lifts her head, studies his face. Echoes of last night fill her ears; she remembers his dream, his panic. It seems like he's not quite over it. Damn.

"Hey. You okay?"

When he doesn't answer right away, concern fists on her heart.

"Castle."

He finally turns his eyes to her, but they're guarded – no trace of their usual warmth and humor. Oh, she doesn't like this.

"I'm fine," he says, and they both know it's a lie.

Kate opens her mouth to interrogate him, find out more about that dream that obviously rattled him, but he beats her to it.

"Do you want to take a shower, before we go down for breakfast?"

She reluctantly turns her eyes to the alarm clock, realizes that they should indeed get going if they want to make it in time for breakfast. She looks back at Castle, her heart tightening at his grim expression. Is this what he needs, a little time alone to think over whatever's tormenting him? If it is, then she's rubbing off on him.

But she understands that process too well not to allow it.

"Yeah. I'll take a quick shower."

She doesn't ask if he wants to join her; it's too obvious what the answer would be. But she does lean in and press her lips to his, to console him, or maybe herself. Hard to tell.

"I'll be right back," she says, even though there's no need to.

She's reluctant to leave him, as if stepping back now would be conceding the victory to his melancholy, to whatever dark thoughts are going through his mind. Castle seems to feel it; he rests his palm against her cheek, his thumb caressing the beauty mark under her left eye that he is so fond of. The tension in her chest eases a little.

"I'll be here," he murmurs, and there's a deep sadness lying in his voice, something she doesn't understand.

It takes everything she has to detach herself from him, to push the bathroom door shut behind her. And even when she's done brushing her teeth, the sour taste of anxiety still lingers in her mouth.

* * *

><p>Castle is still in bed when she gets out of the bathroom. Doesn't even notice her. His face is turned to the window, a grave, thoughtful look on the part she can see. Kate sighs and drops the towel, starts getting dressed without looking at him. By the time she's done with her reversed strip tease and slips on a deep blue V-neck that she knows he likes, she can tell she has his attention again.<p>

She cuts her eyes to him, is surprised by what she finds there. Where she expected lust, she gets this peculiar, intense longing – love, mingled with a sadness that makes her heart ache. Whatever his dream was, clearly there's more to it than what he said.

Kate goes to him, unable to help that instinctive reaction of her body, the desire to comfort him. She sits next to him, tucking her legs under her, and cups his cheek, running a thumb over his cheekbone. Castle closes his eyes; she sees his adam's apple work as he swallows.

Oh, Rick.

"Tell me," she says, the command disguised under the soft tone of her voice.

He licks his lips - something he's picked up from her - and his mouth parts on a soundless sigh. He won't look at her; she doesn't know what to make of that.

"I don't know why," he starts, hesitates. "But I can't stop thinking about the day – about the day we closed your mother's case."

The day they – oh.

That day.

Kate sinks her teeth into her lower lip. That day holds a special place in her heart, because even though there's terrible pain laced with it, there is such joy as well, the bright, warm certainty of how much she loved – _loves_ – Castle; how much she needs him.

"And?" she prods gently when she realizes he's fallen silent again.

She's not sure what happened to him that day. They never really talked about it, but she doesn't like the dark shadows that loom in his eyes whenever she mentions it. And it hurts, too, though she wishes it didn't.

It hurts to think he can look back on the day when she agreed to marry him with such obvious distress.

"Sometimes..." he says, "Sometimes, Kate, I feel like the only reason why you agreed to marry me was because you didn't know what else to do."

Cold seeps into her bones; it's like all the warmth of the morning sun disappears, like the air inside her lungs suddenly tastes wrong. Rotten.

Her body rebels, her back arching against the weight of his words. She breaks the contact, moves off the bed.

"Kate."

She hears the plea in his voice, but she can't listen to it, can't do it. She needs to breathe, needs to focus on that. Simple things. Not the fact that her husband - her *husband*, and the word hurts like it never has before - is now questioning the very basis of...

"Didn't know what else to do?" She echoes, detaching the words in that menacing way she uses in the interrogation room.

"All I mean is –" she hears him move off the bed, but she won't turn back to look, "Kate – you were lost, and I..."

"What? What, Castle? Proposed out of pity?" Even she can hear the crack in her voice. Pathetic.

"Of course not," he growls, stepping closer, where she can see him. Kate backs into the wall, her hands half raised to ward him off. No touching.

She can't handle touching right now.

"I *married* you, Rick," she points out, angry and desperate. "Married you. What else do you want from me?"

What else can she give him? How else can she show him -?

"I –" He swallows heavily, closes his eyes, rubbing a hand to his forehead. "I just – I can't convince myself you won't leave, Kate. I have it in my head that someday you're gonna realize what a huge mistake you've made, realize that you've only agreed to this because of...Because of the circumstances, and when you do –"

She'll leave him. It's written on his face, his fearful, stubborn, grief-filled face, the belief that he's been fighting off and has finally surfaced again.

Her throat is raw and painful; she shakes her head, wordless, tears stinging in her eyes.

"Maybe you shouldn't have married me, then," she drops bitterly, her emotion spilling out on her cheeks.

And she sidesteps him, and walks out of the room.

Breakfast is waiting.

* * *

><p>He watches her eat toast and chat with Jocelyne; she doesn't look his way. Not once. She smiles to their hostess and discusses the main differences between American and French food, completely ignoring him, and even though he knows what she's doing, it doesn't do a whole lot of helping.<p>

Separating.

It's her way to deal.

And that's the heart of it, isn't it? It terrifies him. The way she can cut him out, pretend he doesn't exist. One and done, and sometimes it's the "done" part that gets to him. She might have married him, but she can still remove herself, divorce herself from him. So what if one day she decides that he's not enough? Pats him on the head like a good doggy and shove him off her lap?

He grinds his teeth against the image.

The thing is… He knows, he *knows* that it's the way she works. He knows she doesn't share. And he didn't have problems with it before –

Before he sat in front of her apartment for a couple hours and tried to picture his life without her. Before he curled there, pressing his arms tight to his chest, in a vain attempt to keep his heart from breaking.

The sip of coffee he just took remains stuck in his throat for a second; he breathes deep and slow, lets the warm liquid down.

He needs to talk to her about this.

She doesn't understand. How could she? To her, it feels like he's doubting her love. And he is, isn't he?

He sighs, pours himself some fresh orange juice while listening to the Dutch family's conversation next to him. Yeah, he figured out their nationality. He's slightly disappointed, to be honest. Dutch doesn't fit his idea of exotic.

Kate's elbow brushes his (a mistake, obviously); she shifts a little, putting more space between them.

It's not that he doesn't trust her. It's more complicated than that. It's not her he doubts: it's himself. He's always felt like she was too good for him, and even now… Yeah. Too perfect, too amazing to be true.

The ghost of that day, when he thought she was rejecting him – the shadow of it, of what it could have been, still looms over his head, threatening like a dark cloud just about to burst.

It's not going to go away.

Not unless he talks to her.

He thought he could ignore it. But if it infiltrated his sleep last night, if it's corrupting their honeymoon – and if it can get to him now, can get to him when he's happiest than he's ever been – then he has to do something about it.

He's just not sure where to start.

* * *

><p>Kate manages not to speak a word to him all morning. Not a word as they pack and go down to pay and say goodbye to Jocelyne, not a word as she leads the way towards the next destination, not a word as they stop to have lunch in a deserted picnic area.<p>

Castle doesn't know if her silence is a way to punish him, or if it's just her trying to deal, to figure out stuff.

And he doesn't want to upset her more than he already has, so he leaves her in peace. He won't speak until he finds a sure way to fix this, until the right sentences emerge from the mess of words swirling in his brain.

Of course, it's quite a challenge for him. Rick Castle is by no means a silent man – he's always had something to say. Always a story to tell. And Kate usually loves his stories.

But not today.

He throws her sideways glances while they eat, tries to read her, to decide what his next move should be. She's sitting straight, but the line of her shoulders is not as tense as he would have expected; the look in her eyes is pensive, guarded, but he can't see a trace of anger in her expression.

Uh. Maybe she's not as mad as he thought.

But mad or not, she's still quiet.

Castle sighs, finishes his own sandwich. What he needs is a starting point. He needs the right line, the one that will create an opening in her armour.

She stands up before he can find it, her loose braid swinging over her shoulder, her stride the usual combination of graceful and intent as she walks to the dustbin, throws the rests of their meal away.

He can't help staring.

She turns back to him, eyebrows raised expectantly, and he jumps to his feet.

Lunchtime is over.

* * *

><p>As he follows her on the tiny path that runs into the forest, Castle looks up.<p>

The sky was a bright blue this morning, but now it's grey, clouds all over the place. The air has gone from hot to stifling; it doesn't smell of rain yet, but he is willing to bet that there'll be some.

He considers saying something about it, but Kate is a detective, for god's sake, and she's probably come to that same conclusion already.

He keeps his mouth shut.

When they pass a little wooden shed, however, he's shivering with the stormy wind that has gotten up, and he quickens his pace, catches up with Kate.

"Uh, Kate? Maybe we could stop there."

She glances at him, but doesn't slow down. He doesn't understand how she can walk so fast and not be even a tiny bit breathless.

"Kate, come on. It's going to start raining any minute."

"You don't know that," she shoots back stubbornly. Well, at least she's talking. That's something.

"Kate, love –"

She gives him a dark, deadly look, and he swallows. Okay. No calling her love right now. Another look at the menacing sky convinces him that they really should stop.

Come on, Castle. Man up.

He takes a deep breath and catches her forearm, forcing her to stop, forcing her to turn. Face him. "Kate, stop."

She shakes him off, her eyes shooting daggers at him; but she curls her hands around her upper arms, pale face betraying her vulnerability even with that glare on.

Oh, Kate.

"I trust you," he says without thinking, the words ripped from his heart, the truth of them almost painful. "I do. You *know* I do."

"Do you?" Her voice is so soft, like it will keep him from hearing the cracks in it. It doesn't.

He wants to drop to his knees, beg for her forgiveness, but he won't. Because this is bigger than just her; this is him too, and his issues, and he has to make her understand.

They can fix this, make it better. Together. He knows they can. If only he can tell her.

"I do, Kate. This isn't about trust, not – not exactly."

She arches her eyebrows at him and he can't help thinking that scepticism probably never looked better on anyone.

"What's next?" She asks, sarcasm laid too heavily on the words. "_It's not you, it's me_?"

He presses his lips together in frustration, runs a hand through his hair. Damn it, words are escaping him again, slipping like sand through his fingers.

"Don't laugh at me," he pleads, meeting her eyes.

Kate looks at him in confusion. She lets out a quiet exclamation, hurt and disbelief rolled into one, throws her hands up.

"What the hell, Castle? Yesterday, everything's fine, and today – what? You wake up, convinced that I'm going to leave you one day? Don't tell me that's not about trust."

"It's not," he insists, stubborn. "I trust you. I know that you love me."

"But…? It's not enough?" There are tears in her eyes but she steps closer, understanding dawning on her face. Just like when they're working a case and she catches a lead. "What is this about, Castle? What happened to you that day? The day we closed my mom's case?"

His breath catches in his throat. He feels cornered, trapped, and hell – he doesn't want to talk about it anymore, no no no. It hurts. Hurts too much. Rewind. Can he rewind?

"The nine missed calls," she remembers softly, tilting her head.

Damn. He's screwed. It's like she can hear what he's not saying.

"But I did tell you I needed time," she goes on, something of a warning in her tone. "I told you I'd see you the day after."

He's not going to say anything. He's not even sure he can. He notices the drops of water splashing on his arms, and for a moment he thinks he's crying, but no.

Just the rain.

"I could just not have been answering," she puzzles, eyebrows knit, lips parted.

She looks at him without seeing, her mind on the timeline, he guesses, reviewing the facts. She's going to get to the truth, one way or another.

He might as well help her. But his tongue is glued to his palate.

"And then you came to my place, waited at the door. For how long, Castle?"

She seems completely unaware of the rain that's now falling rather heavily, soaking her hair, her shirt, dripping from her chin. He wants to catch this chin between his fingers, lick the water off her face, kiss her shiny, appealing lips. Can't they just forget about this?

"Long enough," she concludes from his silence, distractedly resting a hand against his chest when he comes closer, stopping him.

Kate, Kate.

"But would you think I was even *home*? I mean, I wasn't – I took the bike – but I could have been…"

Her voice trails off; her eyes land on his face again, filled with horror.

"My car."

There she goes. He follows, fascinated, the course of a drop of rain, dripping from her long lashes, contouring her cheek, pausing at the corner of her mouth. If he could just kiss her –

"Castle. Is that it? You saw my car, assumed that I was home? That I was ignoring you? Cutting you off?"

There's a streak of anger to her voice, but it's mostly deeply rooted grief, and a hint of disappointment. He makes an effort to come back to the moment, gives her a sheepish smile.

Yes, yes and yes. She gets full marks for this.

He's not expecting what happens next. She slaps her hand to his chest, hard, and before he can do anything but yelp in surprise – and _pain_! –, she's done it again, and again.

"Ow! Kate!"

He steps back, but she follows, intent on beating him up it seems. When he catches her right wrist, she uses her left fist; but it only meets his pecs once before her fingers curl around his collar as she slumps against him, her chest heaving with more than just the effort.

"Castle, you idiot," she whispers against his neck, somewhere between a hiss and a sob. And then she's kissing him, pouring everything into it, a dark whirl, her tongue soothing, her teeth scraping, all in the wrong order but it doesn't matter, he'll take it, take it, take anything she has to give, _Kate._

He tastes salt on her lips, realizes belatedly that the moisture on her cheeks is not just rain, but tears now. His or hers?

When she breaks away, she's wrapped so tight around him that he can barely think anymore, cannot focus on anything but the warmth of her knee against his thigh, the imperious tug of her fingers on his neck.

"Can't cut you off," she pants, hot breaths fanning his cheek, her eyes staring into his, so dark and deep, rich with meaning. "I need you too much."


	10. Chapter 10

When Castle shivers against her, not from her ministrations, but from the cold that trickles through his clothes along with the rain, Kate breaks the kiss and detaches her body from his, shuddering immediately at the lack of warmth.

"Let's go back to that cabin you saw," she suggests, linking her fingers with his and tugging him after her.

The rain is *cold*. How can it be so cold when twenty minutes ago, she was sweating and cursing at the stifling heat? She picks up the pace, starts running, Castle following her lead.

Thank god, they don't have to go far; he stopped her before she could drag them any further.

The wooden construction is not really a cabin, but it's bigger than a shed. Kate closes the door after Rick, and wraps her arms around herself, tries to rub some warmth back into her body.

The small room is arranged so that hikers can halt or rest here; a wooden table, two benches around it. It's pretty basic, but right now Kate isn't looking for anything more than a roof.

She gets rid of her backpack, puts it down on the bench, her teeth chattering all along. Castle isn't faring much better; he keeps muttering under his breath, and she catches the words "fuck" and "cold" quite a few times.

"Quit complaining, Castle," she orders, but her voice is too shaky for it to have any real authority.

She cuts her eyes to him, finds him shrugging off his shirt. The heat flares in her belly, sudden and unmistakable, as she stares at his strong back, the muscles working under the skin of his shoulders –

"What are you doing?" She asks before she can help herself.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He shoots back, turning to her. "We'll freeze to death if we stay in these clothes, Kate."

Freeze to death.

He seems to realize his unfortunate choice of words, winces as his eyes meet hers. She gives him a pale smile, shrugs.

"Been there, done that," she jokes half-heartedly.

He sighs, closes his eyes for a second, swallows.

"Come here," he says, his fingers closing on her forearm, pulling her into him.

She rests her forehead against his jaw, brushes a kiss to the faint stubble under his chin. He shivers.

"God, Kate, you're freaking cold. Get this off, love."

He tugs at her shirt and she obeys, slides the cotton fabric over her head before dropping it onto the table. She arches an eyebrow at him.

"Always trying to get me naked, uh?"

He gives her a look that she's not quite sure how to interpret, but it's definitely not the lustful leer she was aiming at. It's a too grave look, the lines around his mouth too serious, and Kate can't bear to see them.

She darts forward, her lips meeting his with little warning, her hands curling around his face, palms brushing his cheeks.

After a second his arms come around her, tighten at her back, but he keeps the kiss gentle. Delicate. Like she's a flower and he's carefully gathering nectar from her mouth; like she's fine china and he's afraid to break her.

But she won't break, she won't.

She presses her body to his, promises thrumming inside her, yearning to be voiced. But there are other ways, better ways, and the hand resting flat on his chest drifts down, down –

He stays her fingers, catching them lightly in his own, and sighs into her mouth.

"Kate."

It kills her, the restraint in his voice, the soft but determined refusal. She breaks away, stares at him, her chest small and cramped.

She tries to read him, tries to understand. But they work so differently; and she has no idea what he needs.

At last she surrenders, stoops to asking.

"What, Castle? What can I *do*?" She hates the tremble in her voice, stiffens her spine, steels herself. "Tell me. Tell me what I can do to make this better."

Obviously, she's not going about this the right way – but if he could just explain, could just…

"I…" He groans in frustration, runs a hand through his copper hair. "I don't –"

Her heart sinks.

She didn't do this on purpose. She could never have guessed that he'd wait for hours outside her apartment, would think she was inside and not answering him. But still, this feels like her fault all the same, because she needed space, because she never talked about it until now.

Tears sting against her eyelids. This will not do. She can't feel guilty for being herself. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip.

"Please, Castle."

He gives her a surprised look, probably thrown off by the pleading she didn't mean to let out.

"I never meant to hurt you," she breathes, her thumb caressing his mouth.

"I know," he answers immediately, his own hand splaying on her waist, large and warm.

"Then *help* me, goddamn it," she urges. "Help me make this better. Don't make me feel guilty for something I had no idea about."

"I don't know _how_, Kate," he exclaims, growing indignant as she does. "I don't *know* what will help."

They stare at each other for a moment, worked up and powerless at the same time, until Kate steps away, runs her hands through her long, wet, tangled hair. Okay. Okay.

Through the little window of the cabin, she can see that the rain is still pouring outside; it doesn't look like it will stop anytime soon.

A flash of inspiration rushes through her.

She turns back to her husband, notices his slumped shoulders, the sadness in his eyes. Her throat burns. But no. She can make this better.

She knows she can.

"Sit down, Rick," she says softly, cherishing the flicker of hope and love that crosses his blue eyes when he looks at her. She won't let this break them.

Won't let anything break them. Not ever.

One and done.

"I'm going to tell you a story," she says.

* * *

><p>She makes him sit on the bench, but she won't join him. He watches her lithe form as she paces, the energy that rolls off her, all long limbs and svelte line.<p>

After a minute she lets out a deep sigh and stills, leaning against the wall in front of him. She's not looking at him, but that's okay. He understands.

Distance – distance is the only way she knows not to break.

Which, of course, is the reason why he got hurt in the first place. But he pushes that down now, locks up the dark feelings, gives her his attention. Of the two of them, *he* is the storyteller. He's the one who feels the power of the printed letter, loves it, plays with it – the one who writes novels about her.

So yeah. He's curious about Kate's story.

She licks her lips, uncurls her hands and rests them flat on her thighs.

"Once upon a time," she says, her voice low but carrying, "there was a little girl. She wasn't anything special, no different from hundreds of little girls – she had a mommy and a daddy who loved her, and she was happy. Some children want a little brother or sister, but she… didn't feel like there was anything missing."

Ah. He vaguely senses where this is going, and he understands why she made him sit down. It's going to be hell, keeping himself from reaching out to her.

"Except, one day, the girl's mom got killed. Just, like that. She could not understand it. It didn't make any _sense_. Why would anyone want to kill her mom? No one could give her a good explanation. Just – flimsy excuses. And they all seemed happy with it. Because her mom was dead, nothing could be done."

Her voice, when she started, was calm and measured; now it sounds like she's swallowing sobs, pushing them back with her anger for a shield. Castle grinds his teeth, his fingers clenching around the bench.

Is this supposed to help him? Because it's not helping.

It's not. He just wants to wrap her in his arms and kiss this better. Make her go quiet.

But she's inhaling slowly, and starting again.

"She had to know why. She needed to understand. It was the only way, the only way to – make the pain stop. There was this large, heavy rock sitting on the girl's chest, and the only way she could lift it enough to breathe was by telling herself that she would find the person responsible. She couldn't accept it, Castle. She needed – answers."

Kate looks at him, her eyes wide and pleading. Apologizing. He can only nod silently, his lips parted on the words that won't come out, trapped somewhere between his lungs and his throat.

"So she devoted herself to that quest for truth, because it allowed her to fight the darkness back, gave her space to stand. Space where she didn't have to be hunched and… crippled by the pain."

Oh god, Kate. He tries to swallow; his mouth feels sticky, uncomfortably dry.

"It went on for a long time. And at one point she tried – she tried to stop, tried to live her own life instead, to focus on people, but… It couldn't – it wouldn't –"

She presses her lips together and shakes her head; he watches her hungrily, the sweep of her dark lashes against her cheek as she closes her eyes, remembers.

But then she lightens and glances at him, a smile dancing on the edge of her lips.

"And then this man came along. At first she thought he was a punk. That he couldn't take anything seriously, that life was a game for him. But as she grew to know him – as he grew to know her – things changed. They became friends. In fact, he became her best friend." She smiles, her close-lipped smile, the one he loves, and something bursts open into Castle's chest.

His legs tingle with the urge to get up, touch her, but he stays where he is. He can't tell the story isn't done yet.

"And she did something very risky, something she hadn't done in many years. Something she probably wouldn't have done for anyone else." Kate bites her lip, meets his eyes. "She let him in."

Castle's heart is pounding furiously, echoing in his ears so that he has to lean forward, make sure he gets everything. He's not sure why – he knows this story, or part of it – he's *lived* it.

He just…never thought he'd get her version. Not like this.

"Of course, it didn't happen at once. It was slow, and for the most part, not exactly deliberate." She flashes him a nervous little grin; he gives it back to her.

Oh, he knows that she didn't let him in on purpose. He had to work at her, work at Kate Beckett, day after day, coffee after coffee, and to be honest, he's rather proud of himself for this.

"But one day, she woke up and realized that this was it. That the man had wiggled his way into her life, insinuated himself in every corner, and now there was no way she could get him out. She…wouldn't have known where to start, had she wanted to."

"She didn't?"

He promised himself he wouldn't interrupt, but damn. This is just. Wow.

Kate looks at him from under her eyelashes, one of those shy, hesitant looks that aren't Beckett at all. Just…Kate.

"She didn't," she murmurs. "She…needed him."

He's not breathing, and he doesn't even care. He wants to get up, hold her; he wants to –

Kate seems to feel this. She gets closer, rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. Pushing him back. Story's not over yet.

But he can't deal with her being so far away, and he claims her waist, invites her, begs her with his eyes. She releases her lower lip slowly, and settles down in his lap, her knees on both sides of him, brushing his thighs.

Her fingers draw light patterns on his temple, his cheek, the side of his jaw. Emotion shimmers in her eyes, in and out, like the ocean lapping at the shore.

"He helped her solve her mother's case," she breathes.

"And what happened next?" He's so caught up in this story, their story. He wants, so badly, to understand.

"Castle." His name trembles on her lips as she leans forward, hides her face into his shoulder. After a moment, he feels her draw a shuddering breath against him, and her spine straightens into his hand.

"Do you want to know what I did that day?" She asks, determined now.

He barely has time to nod before she goes on.

"I went home, called my dad. But Castle – he only asked about me, how I felt, what my plans where, and I… I realized. That he was over it; that he had come to terms with her death. Made his peace with it. But I."

She shakes her head; locks of dark, soft hair brush his shoulder, tickling.

"I – didn't. I went chasing after that thing, and that day – catching him –"

He doesn't dare breathe, doesn't want to break her flow, when it seems she's already struggling to find words.

"I realized it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Because I would never get her back."

His heart is breaking; he tightens his arms around her, tries to crush her into him, but she resists, her palms flat on his chest, the familiar, stubborn frown on his face. _Let me finish._

"Kate," he murmurs in her ear, wanting to rock her, make it better somehow.

She soldiers on, the words falling messily from her lips, like she's forcing them out.

"And that day, Rick, that day was like trying to walk around with an open hole in my chest. And nothing helped. Not the bath, not your books, not the bike ride. Nothing. Nothing but – you."

Uh. What?

"That day felt like I was dead inside, Castle, and then you. You made me alive again."

He's numb, speechless. He what?

"And that's why I married you. Not because I didn't know what to do, not because I was lost. Because *you* found me. Because you got to me that day when nobody else could. You, Castle."

Oh.

That's all he's able to think for a long time. Oh_._

Kate looks into him, her eyes so dark and full and bright – and he believes her. He does. He believes her.

He lets out a long, wonder-filled, relieved breath, and he skims his fingers from her waist to her elbow, her shoulder, her neck, threads them through the mess of dark curls.

And he kisses her.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Sorry about the delay in posting - as we all know, sometimes life happens. I also want to thank everyone who's read and reviewed - I don't have as much time as I would wish to answer each of those reviews, but they mean a lot. They really do. So thank you, all of you, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

><p>Castle kisses her, light and gentle, slow and intentional, and then with that same irresistible conviction he moves past her lips and invests her mouth, his tongue caressing and teasing and dripping fire into her veins.<p>

Her hands curl on his shoulders for support or encouragement, she isn't sure - his skin is warm, tender under her fingers, and she moans in approval, inches closer. She's draped over him, his body surrounded with her, and still that's not enough. Nothing is enough.

She wasn't lying earlier - she *needs* him, needs him with a ferocity, an urgency that scares her, leaves her bewildered and powerless.

She can't help it.

He takes his time, each gesture infused with meaning, the large palm splaying at the back of her neck, the nibbling at the corner of her mouth, the thumb of his left hand drawing circles on her chest, around the faded scar of the bullet that almost killed her.

She feels something wet on her cheek and realizes with a mixture of annoyance and shame that she's crying. But Castle doesn't seem to care; he kisses her tears, licks them, drinks them, and desire needles through her stomach, makes her jerk against him.

"Oh, Rick," she breathes, so helpless, so small, everything burning inside.

He hums in response, the vibrations rattling her, traversing her body faster than she can think. He moves his lips to her neck - _oh_ - to her collarbone - Jesus, she can't - and then to her chest. The tip of his tongue teases her, so light and mischievous, while his fingers slide to the clasp of her bra, undo it expertly.

She closes her eyes tightly so that the play of light behind her eyelids matches the heat coursing through her veins, unfurling in her belly. The lights dance, strange and wild and beautiful, as Castle works his tongue, his lips, his teeth all over her body.

She shivers, and it's not from the cold; she growls, and it's not in anger. And when she curls around him, when she begs him, pleads with him, it's not about making him feel better. Not anymore.

It's about her and him, about them - husband and wife.

Her husband.

The gratitude fuzzily melts into the pleasure jarring her bones, and when she comes, his name is a sigh on her lips.

Not Castle –

Rick.

* * *

><p>Castle finds himself very grateful for wide wooden benches as he lays down on his back, the warm weight of Kate resting over his chest, her dark locks splayed over his ribs, her lips brushing his skin.<p>

It's not very comfortable, of course, but he wouldn't move for the world. Their legs are tangled, a mess of limbs, and his arm around her waist secures her against him. He teases the soft skin of her side with his fingers and she curls tighter around him, a breath, half-sigh, half-laugh, falling from her lips and fanning his chest.

"Castle," she murmurs, and he feels the flutter of her fine eyelashes, hears the drugged, sleepy quality of her voice.

"Yeah?"

She licks her lips slowly, and her tongue accidentally brushes his torso. Then he feels her mouth curving into a smile, and he removes the "accidentally" part of the sentence.

His sexy, gorgeous, amazing wife.

"We should probably get dressed," she says quietly, and the reluctance in her voice lifts his heart. She's not even trying to hide it.

"Are you cold?" He asks, wrapping both arms around her, hoping to weave a cocoon of warmth around her slim body.

Her absolutely decadent body. The thought makes him smile. He tries to lock it in a corner of his head, until he can find a laptop or a sheet of paper, write it down for the next Nikki Heat. So frustrating when he has the words but no means to make sure he'll remember them.

"Hmm, no," Kate answers, burrowing her face into his chest and yawning against him.

"I think it's fine then," he whispers, playing with a still-wet curl. "You can sleep for a little while." He wants to enjoy this, his wife asleep over him, savor the last of the heat and pleasure threading through his body while knowing that she's here to stay.

That she *chose* him.

He's still bewildered, but delighted too, happy beyond words, the weight of it too much for his poor heart, the joy bursting, blinding.

"Not sleeping," she mutters, the words almost inaudible. He smiles, bites back the answer that tingles on his tongue.

He's not sorry he did: ten seconds later, her breathing has evened out. Asleep against him.

He grins.

His wife.

* * *

><p>Kate drifts in and out of sleep for a little while, lulled by the peaceful rhythms of Castle's heart, the warmth radiating out of him; but she's never been one for naps. The drowsiness that comes with waking up, the heavy, awkward feel of her body – she hates those.<p>

So when she attempts to turn and almost falls from the bench – Castle's solid arm is the only thing stopping her – she decides that naptime is over.

She disentangles herself from her husband's body, a small smile gracing her lips when he gives her a whiny pout, and quickly retrieves her clothes, puts them back on. The damp, sticky fabric makes her shiver, and she's thinking of changing into some of the dry clothes in her backpack when she notices the bright ray of light coming in through the cabin's tiny window, tracing a clear path over the dark wooden floor.

Kate goes to the door, opens it; sunlight pours in, claiming the space. She has to slit her eyes against it, shade them with her hand.

"Castle," she calls breathlessly when she can see again, stunned, silenced by how beautiful it all is.

She steps outside without even realizing it, the grass wet but soft under her bare feet. The sunlight catches in the million little drops of rain that drip from the trees, hesitating when they reach the end of a leaf, unwilling to splatter on the far-away ground – it's like nature has been adorned with sparkling diamonds and is now alight with them.

Green and gold, and blinding white.

Her heart pounds, the dazzling, enchanting vision melding with her feelings for the man who is now standing at her back, his hands splayed on her waist. Everything swirling inside her.

Rick's mouth follows the curve of her neck, presses a kiss into the sensitive junction with her shoulder.

"It's beautiful," he murmurs, resting his cheek against hers.

Kate turns in his arms, just enough to meet his blue eyes, so clear, free of clouds. Just like the sky above them.

"Yes," she says, brushing her lips to the corner of his mouth before she looks at him, into him, and watches the happiness unfurl on his face as he understands her. "It is."

* * *

><p>She lets him hold her hand.<p>

She lets him hold her hand and even though she's done it before, even though the feel of her cool, slender fingers against his is nothing new, Castle can't fight the delight hugging his heart, the exhilaration that makes his toes curl.

It's almost like he's on drugs, like he's high – and he's not sure it'll ever wind down.

He never realized until now, how heavy the mantle of uncertainty was. How it weighed him down, even in the best of times.

But not anymore.

What with the rain and their – pause – at the cabin, they are behind in Kate's schedule, and she tries to make up for it, pushes them to a quicker pace. In any other circumstance Castle would probably complain (he likes a slower rhythm, likes being able to look around and take his time) but today he follows, his feet only too happy to keep on pace with hers.

When the sun starts to set, however, and they've only taken a couple short breaks – not to mention the poor cereal bar he had for a snack which has left his stomach thoroughly discontented – Rick has to press his lips together to refrain from asking, "How much longer?"

Kate still has that determined look in her eyes, even though she's slowed down a bit for the last hour (he wants to make a comment about her not being able to sustain the pace she's set herself, but he has a feeling that wouldn't end well).

She seems to know where she's taking them.

Which is too bad, because honestly, he'd take any bed, or tent, or well, anything really. Anything that allows him to lay her down and cradle her body into his, trace its lines and curves until her hips buck from the touch of his tongue.

The cabin has left him somewhat unsatisfied; he always wants more time with her, wants to feel her tremble, to hear those helpless, breathy little moans that he loves to drag from her lips.

She took him by surprise earlier – he was vulnerable, unmanned by her story, unable to resist. But tonight, tonight –

He's going to build her up for a long, long time before he lets her be satisfied. Before he lets either of them be satisfied. A smirk stretches his lips, and just then Kate turns to him, arches an eyebrow when she takes in his expression.

And he thinks –

He thinks she shivers a little.

"How much longer?" He finally dares to ask, his tone as far as possible from the whine that usually goes with the words.

It might be the night falling, but her eyes have definitely grown darker. Beautiful, bottomless eyes. He wants to kiss that beauty mark again, feel the flutter of her lashes against his cheeks…

"About an hour," she answers, her voice low, lacking its normal veneer of confidence.

While he can enjoy the effect he seems to have on her, the answer does not exactly make Castle happy.

"An hour?" He echoes, unable to keep his displeasure from showing. "Kate, we've practically been walking all day. Is there nowhere closer?"

She narrows her eyes at him, clearly not enjoying being challenged. But she does consider – he can see it in the way she presses her lips together, pushes her hair back.

"There's –" She pauses, shakes her head at herself. "There's this village where I thought we could stop, Saint-Sernin" (Oh, this French accent) "but they didn't have any free rooms, except for this château thing that was so expensive… "

"Château?" Castle interrupts excitedly. "That's – French for Castle, right? *So* appropriate. Oh come on, Kate. Please."

She parts her mouth – he can read objection all over her face – but she hesitates.

"I know that it wasn't in your plans," he adds softly, as persuasive as he can. "And since it wasn't, since I'm the one asking, maybe I can pay –"

"No, Castle," she opposes immediately, firm, immovable. "No. We can go, sure, but it's on me. You promised, remember? Honeymoon's on me."

"Kate…"

The look in her eyes – utter determination, and the promise of a storm to come – makes him stop, swallow his arguments. He did promise. He said they'd do this her way, and if she can pay, if she wants to, then he should keep his mouth shut.

No matter how much he wants to spoil her, make everything perfect for her. Kate is her own woman – she'll never let him pamper her.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Okay," he says, surrenders. He smiles, watches the surprise that widens her eyes when she realizes she won't have to fight for this.

He reaches out to take her hand, and after a moment Kate squeezes back, smiles. With her free hand, she fishes for the map in her back pocket, unfolds it.

"It's only ten or fifteen minutes away, I think. We have to go back to the fork we passed a couple minutes ago, turn left instead of right."

"Lead the way," he simply answers.

And because he can't help himself, he leans in, brushes his lips to hers, light and tender. Just a way to tell her, _you__'__re __in __charge_. _I__'__ll __go __where __you __go._

Kate kisses him back, her fingers curling at his jaw, caressing.

Ah, they need to get to that hotel already.

He's the one to break away, eager as he is for more, more than just a brush of his wife – he wants the whole thing, the smooth planes of her abdomen, the delicate dip of her navel, that spot at her side, between two ribs, where the skin is impossibly soft.

"Let's go," he says, tugging on her hand.

He feels, rather than hears her laugh; her chest vibrates with it, and her smile is bright even in the dimming light.

"Let me grab the map," she murmurs, biting her lip as she squats down, hand outstretched for the piece of paper.

And he realizes with a twinge of disbelief that she let go of the map in order to kiss him properly, to press her palm to his cheek.

He grins, can't help gloating a little (and who could, really? The thought of having Kate Beckett at his mercy, of being able to wipe her mind clean of other concerns – it's just too good).

She doesn't mistake the expression on his face, and he gets an eye roll for his troubles.

"Yeah, Castle, we got it. I can't think straight when you're around."

Under the heavy layer of sarcasm, though, her voice seems to hold something very different – a delicate melange of tenderness and annoyance, of pride and amusement.

Wow. It seems there is some truth to her statement (well, he *knows* there is some truth to it, if he's honest) – but the stunning thing is, she seems perfectly aware of it herself. And…she doesn't mind?

"Well. Are we spending the night here, Castle? I was under the impression that you were quite…eager for a bed."

There's no mistaking the laughter dancing in her eyes, rippling on her face. The little –

"Not so much the bed as the woman in it," he shoots back, grabbing her hand and starting to move back to that fork in the path.

And – how delightful – night or not, he can still perfectly make out the lovely blush that paints her cheeks.


	12. Chapter 12

Kate is quite pleased to discover that her estimations were a bit generous – it only takes them five minutes to get to Saint-Sernin, the forest path opening on a tiny street that leads straight to the village square.

Castle is happy too, she can tell: the bounce is back in his step, and his head keeps swivelling to the right, to the left, his eyes wide as he watches avidly, as if he's trying to burn the image in his memory.

He might be – she's not sure how much of this will end in the next novel, after all. She trusts him (crazy as it sounds) to know which parts of this are theirs only, and which ones she wouldn't mind sharing with Nikki and Rook.

He's done it very well in the past, and she can see no reason why he would need her help now.

She didn't write down the address of the hotel – since, obviously, she decided against it – so she stops a middle-aged woman who seems to be walking home and asks her for directions.

It's a thirty-minute walk from the town center. Damn. She did remember it was a little ways out, but she'd hoped her memories were wrong. She thanks the woman anyway, chews on her lip reflexively.

It's strange; before Rick suggested that they stop, she was focused on her goal, on making it to their next destination. Single-minded, as always. Now that she isn't, she can feel the exhaustion curling along her limbs, the headache threatening, the fire that burns her calves. It's a little overwhelming.

Castle's ahead of her; she can see him crouching next to a softly-murmuring fountain, and assumes that he's trying to charm a cat – there is a population of cats wandering around freely in these southern towns. (And Rick has marks on his forearms to prove it; silly man, always trying to tame wide animals.)

But when she gets to him, she pauses in surprise.

The "cat" is a little girl.

A tiny girl who can't be more than two or three years old, with big, dark eyes that stare at Castle in a mixture of interest and suspicion, and a mass of dark curls through which she runs a cute, pale little hand.

"Je suis Rick," the writer says softly as he extends a hand to the child, his deep voice running through Kate like deliciously warm water, so soothing. "Comment tu t'appelles?"

The little girl tilts her head, seems to consider his question, but doesn't give any element of an answer.

Without turning, Rick holds out a hand for Kate, and she steps forward, squatting next to him, amused and slightly flattered at the way he senses her presence whenever she's near.

"Et voici Kate," he offers, gentle but not overly so – not like those adults who coo when they talk to a child, no matter if said child is two or twelve. "Ma femme."

She gets a thrill of pure pleasure at hearing the words in French, also knowing that Castle gets a kick out of it because he finds it highly amusing that the French have the same word for "woman" and "wife".

She has a feeling that he'd love to say "she's my woman" in English, whenever asked about her. *So* not happening.

The child peers at her from under those dark, thick eyelashes, and Kate's heart gives a little. She's weary and tired and not ready for this, for this girl with her green eyes and her chestnut curls, who looks like she could be her daughter.

"Hey," she finds herself murmuring, drawn to this intense little face.

"K-ate," the girl repeats tentatively, her cheeks dimpling with a hesitant smile.

"Oui," Kate says, nodding, need swelling in her chest and pounding against her ribs, springing from some dark, unknown place inside her. "Et toi? Ton nom?"

The tiny thing smiles, and it's cheeky and mischievous - which seems to make Castle laugh, sounding enchanted.

"Hélène!" A woman's deep, beautiful voice calls just then, laced with only mild concern. The girl's head swivels, and Kate jumps back to her feet, answers, "Ici!"

If she herself were a parent to that adorable child, she'd hate to be left wondering where her daughter is. Even though it earns her a testy, betrayed look from the girl, who heads for Castle and hides behind his leg, wrapping her little arms around him.

Rick laughs and Kate's heart thuds, visions swarming in her mind – Richard Castle cradling a tiny baby in his arms, looking up to her with joy on his lips, wonder in his eyes, that same laugh.

She takes a deep breath and tries to hold the pieces together, to push back the inane desire, bury it.

The woman with the beautiful voice appears, her face matching almost exactly her rich, mellow tones. Deep grey eyes and a warm smile in a tanned face, framed by a mess of curls that the little girl has obviously inherited.

"Excusez-la," she apologizes, dropping to her knees and attempting to detach her daughter from Castle's leg. "Elle court dehors dès que j'ai le dos tourné. Hélène," she adds in a low, scolding tone, "qu'est-ce que je t'ai dit, mmh? Tu attends papa ou moi pour sortir. Je suis désolée," she smiles, looking up at Kate.

"Ce n'est pas grave," the detective says, unable to tear her eyes away from the child, who is now petulantly crossing her arms over her cute green frock.

"Are you –" the woman hesitates, excitement sparkling in her voice. "Are you English?"

Kate is vaguely annoyed at her being able to tell so quickly, but Castle laughs, corrects, "No, American."

"Oh," Hélène's mom exclaims, beaming. "Of course. I'm sorry. I'm terrible at picking accents. But I spent a year of exchange in Ireland, when I was at university, and I loved every minute of it. I almost never get to speak English here – there is an English couple living in their country house, but they always want to speak French – and it makes me so sad, you know? I don't want to forget it completely."

"You don't seem to be forgetting anything," Castle comments admiringly. "Your English sounds close to perfect to me."

She blushes, a look of pleasure in her eyes, and Kate is so grateful for this man, her husband, who can easily chat with anyone and make them comfortable, when *she* is too tired and stupid to do anything other than stare at this little girl.

Who looks like hers. Sort of.

Okay, she totally does. Even Castle has noticed; he gives her a meaningful look when Hélène wanders away from her mom to press her little hand to Kate's knee. His look mixes surprise and arousal and something deeper, rich, something that steals her breath.

They haven't really talked about kids, have they? God, they haven't talked about anything. Sidestepped all the issues. They jumped into this marriage thing together, blindfolded, so ridiculously confident – that must be Castle's influence on her, now that she thinks about it, because this is *not* what Kate Beckett does.

Kate Beckett weighs the risks, considers her options, establishes a worst-case scenario before she makes any sort of decision. Except – Castle throws her world off-balance, always has, and… And so she married him. And here they are.

Together.

But they need to start talking about stuff. No matter how contrary that might be to her nature. Jeez, until today, he thought she'd married him out of despair – she doesn't like what that says about either of them – and she can't… Things can't go on this way.

She has to do something about it.

There's a lull in the conversation (Castle is still talking to the woman – Bénédicte, she thinks) and she realizes that both faces are turned to her, probably waiting for her answer.

To a question she didn't hear.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?"

Castle smiles, but she can see a ripple of concern in his blue eyes.

"Bénédicte –" he nods imperceptibly towards Hélène's mother – "was asking where we intend to stay tonight."

"Oh." Kate closes her eyes for an instant, tries to visualize the webpage that she looked at. "I think it was…Château du Vergnet?"

She pulls out her best accent, is pleased to see Bénédicte's eyes light up in response. "Oh, yes. I know the woman who runs it. Do you want me to give her a call, make sure they have rooms available?"

Oh, wow. Right. Kate didn't even think about that. The possibility of the hotel not having rooms. How slow is her brain tonight?

"That would be wonderful, thank you," she answers, swallowing back her frustration at herself.

"Actually," Bénédicte hesitates. "If you wanted… I don't know what your plans are of course, and I certainly don't want to seem too – overbearing is the word, I think? But I was in the middle of making dinner, and you could eat with us, whether or not they have room at the Château du Vergnet. Their dinner prices are a little bit extravagant to me."

"That's very nice, but we don't want to impose," Kate hastens to say before Castle can agree enthusiastically. She can see it in his eyes – he wants to say yes.

It's not that Kate is completely against it, and she *is* fatigued, but such selflessness, such kindness generates a sort of mistrust in her that she cannot quite turn off.

"You wouldn't impose at all," Bénédicte smiles. "I was making a tarte – a pie? – and Hélène doesn't eat those, so it's just my husband and I. Trust me, it's more than enough for four, especially with the salad he made. And I – I would love to speak English with you."

Kate opens her mouth, finds herself short of an objection.

A small hand tugs on hers; she looks down, meets the large, pleading eyes of the little girl. Hélène.

"But really – I don't want to intrude," Bénédicte adds, obviously uncomfortable with the silence. "I mean, this is your honeymoon, you probably want to be just the two of you – I fully understand…"

"No," Kate interrupts, shaking her head slowly, her lips curving into a smile at last. "If you're sure *we* are not intruding, then we'd love to."

And it's worth it, worth making that extra effort and trying to overcome her own reluctance, because Castle's face sparkles with joy, his social butterfly instincts probably kicking in, and he takes her hand, squeezes it gently before turning to Bénédicte.

Kate lets her eyes slide closed for a moment, gathers her energy. An impatient little tap on her knee distracts her; it's Hélène, her baby fist closing on Kate's calf as she points her other hand to her mom.

Who is walking back to her house, deep in conversation with Rick. Okay.

"J'arrive," she assures the girl, and she takes a deep breath before snagging the little hand between hers, allowing herself the gesture before she can find reasons against it. "Tu me montres le chemin?"

Hélène nods eagerly, beams, and starts walking her to the house. The small fingers can only close on two of Kate's at a time, and the realization makes the detective smile. Her heart curls in her chest; her eyes travel to Castle's large back, and the desire to be alone with him threads through her.

Not for –

Well, that too. But mostly because they need to talk.

It's fine; she'll wait. She'll be patient and save all those delicate, complicated feelings for later, the feelings evoked by the tiny hand cradled in hers, the sight of her husband crouching next to the little girl.

She'll wait. But she wishes she didn't have to.

* * *

><p>They never make it to the Château du Vergnet. Bénédicte and her husband Vincent have a guestroom, and when they suggest that they simply stay there, Rick glances at Kate: she looks so tired. Like she's about to pass out from exhaustion.<p>

Castle isn't sure what happened to the woman who relentlessly ploughed ahead all day, who was willing to walk an hour more, but she's not here now.

He's seen Beckett tired before, seen her work long hours at the precinct, but somehow, somehow, tonight seems different. He tries to tone down his concern, convince himself that it's nothing.

Still, he takes the offer, warmly thanking their hosts, and waving off Kate's faint protests. Too faint; it feels wrong. He can't shake the feeling.

The room is actually very nice, spacious and well organized, the walls a warm, welcoming orange. Castle sets his backpack on the floor, stretches to relax the muscles of his back while Kate drops her stuff to a corner and sinks onto the bed with all of her clothes on.

The only things she's taken off are her shoes.

He sort of expects her to get up again – she could just be trying the mattress, or resting for a few minutes before she goes to the bathroom – but when he has brushed his teeth and changed into pyjamas, he comes back to the room to find her fast asleep.

"Kate?" He murmurs, brushing a hand along her dark hair. She mumbles something and scoots a little closer, curling up, but she doesn't wake.

Wow. Who is this stranger? Kate always complains about the time it takes her to fall asleep, how she needs at least half an hour to soothe her brain, make it go quiet.

He presses his lips together, considers.

There's no way he's waking her up now. But she also needs to get out of her clothes. With a little sigh, Castle undoes the buttons to her shorts, then pauses. To take them off – to take anything off, her cotton shirt, her bra – he needs to lift her up.

Damn.

"Kate," he whispers again. Nothing.

Okay. Well. It's worth a try. He starts tugging down her shorts, slides them along her gorgeous legs, and though she murmurs something and unfolds her legs for him, she's still breathing evenly, louder than she would if she was awake.

Next is her shirt – he struggles a little with that, ends up sliding it off her legs too; the fabric stretches easily, and it's not like she's fat. The thought makes a smile curl on his lips.

Okay, this is not how he expected to undress her tonight, not exactly what he had planned, but to be honest he can't bring himself to care. The concern is gnawing at his insides, sneaking its way up his throat, and he's only grateful that he gets to be here at all.

That he's the one who gets to do this. Undress her and put her to bed because she's too exhausted to do it herself, and worry on her account.

It's enough for him; enough for now.

When she's left in her underwear, he hesitates. He would probably leave her like this, if they hadn't got thoroughly drenched today, if he didn't think that he could still feel some remaining humidity when he presses his hand to her bra.

Off they go, then.

He gently pulls the sheet from under her, tucks it around her naked body before he turns off the lights, walks around the bed and slides in on the other side of her. And because she's out cold, because she won't push him away, he snuggles against her, cradling her back to his chest and wrapping an arm around her waist.

Then he closes his eyes, smiles happily, letting the darkness and Kate's smell envelope him.

She's the only thing on his mind when sleep comes for him.


	13. Chapter 13

Cold.

She's so cold.

She can feel it trickling through her veins, debilitating, slow and, ugh – disgusting.

Kate rolls to her side, not sure she's awake, and curls as tight as she can, trying to trap the warmth that seems to be inexorably fleeing her body. She unwittingly brushes her hand against a hot, soft, solid thing, and it takes her forever to realize that this – oh – this is Castle's chest.

She burrows into him, desperate for the heat, and grits her teeth to keep them from chattering. Her head hurts, images swimming through her mind without any sort of sense or connection: the last crime scene they worked, Alexis crying at their wedding, her father's cabin last summer, so far away and yet –

She drifts back to sleep, but it's nothing like peaceful rest. It's more like a nightmarish thing where she wakes up in a panic every two seconds for no reason at all – and every time it takes a couple minutes to get her breathing under control, to convince her silly brain that none of what it's been imagining is true.

When that happens for the nth time, Kate is so exhausted, so frustrated that she might cry. She breathes deep and slow, curls her fingers around Castle's ribs, as if she can use him as a talisman against her sick dreams.

And maybe she can, she thinks fleetingly as she rests her forehead to his chest, listens to his lovely, lulling heartbeats.

Maybe she can.

* * *

><p>Castle wakes in a daze, his body startling without his permission, blinking stupidly in the dark. What on earth –<p>

His throat is dry, and he swallows painfully, groans when he realizes that the heat is suffocating him. He lifts a heavy hand to wipe the sweat trickling down his face, tries to move away; something restrains him.

Kate's fingers, he notices after awhile, his eyes taking too long to adjust to the dimness of the room. Uh – okay. Kate's fingers are clenched around his t-shirt, which doesn't feel quite…right.

Not to mention, they're shaking.

Shaking?

That sobers him, sends flashes of awareness and incomprehension through his brain. Is she – is she crying? Terror opens in him like a pit, dark and bottomless, because if this is his doing – if he's making her so unhappy that she cries at night, quiet enough not to wake him –

"Kate?" He murmurs, the sound strangled, barely making it past his lips.

She doesn't answer, and his heart eases as his mind catches up – no sniffing, no sobbing or breathy little moans. She's not crying. She's…asleep? But shaking. Shivering, really.

Even though her skin is burning hot.

"Kate," he whispers again, suddenly anxious for her to open her eyes. "Kate, wake up."

She whines, a small, pitiful noise at the back of her throat, something he's never heard from her. Something he never expected to hear from her either. His heart thuds heavily in his chest.

He's never – never seen her like this before. So helpless in his arms.

So sick.

She has to be sick. Only reason why her skin would feel like it's on fire.

He brushes back the wet hair that sticks to her forehead, presses a kiss to it, wincing at how scalding she is. Oh, Kate.

He traces the edge of her jaw with his fingertips, moves to her neck, hoping that the light caresses will somehow help cool her down; but she frissons violently against him, shakes her head against it.

"Kate?"

She moans and he can tell that she's closer to consciousness, struggling towards it; her eyelids flutter, although it seems too great an effort to keep them open.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs, brushing his lips to hers, trying to make it a little less uncomfortable for her. Her fingers tighten on his t-shirt; he decides to take it as a good sigh.

"Hmm, cold," she rasps, sounding completely out of it. And so miserable; it makes his throat constrict. "So cold, Castle."

"Actually, love," he says hesitantly. "You're burning up."

She doesn't seem to hear; she's licking her lips, and she squeezes her eyes shut with a pained little breath. But instead of moving away, of curling on her side of the bed like she usually does when she's weak or exposed, she draws closer, throwing an arm around his waist and bringing the length of her body flush with his, radiating warmth.

"Warm me up?" She suggests with a smile that is the ghost of the seductive, coy little grin that he's proved unable to resist in the past.

He sighs, toys with the idea of getting up to find the Tylenol he remembers packing, or simply asking their kind hostess to call the closest doctor. But Kate is nestled against him, looking so very vulnerable and in need of him, and he cannot find it in him to deny her.

He closes his eyes, cradles her to his chest. He can take the heat, he thinks, but the thought doesn't even garner a smile from him.

Just a few moments more, he promises himself. A few moments more, and if she's not feeling any better, he will go get help.

I promise, Kate.

* * *

><p>When he wakes up the next time, his first coherent thought is, <em>Shit, I fell asleep<em>. He checks the red digits of the clock that sits on his wife's bedside table; ten to three in the morning. He was asleep for an hour and a half.

Not so bad.

"Kate?"

She doesn't hear him. Her eyes are squeezed shut as if she's trying to resist an unpleasant dream, and Castle rubs a hand against her arm, her side, a poor way to assure her of his support.

At least she's not shivering anymore; but she's still nestled against him, and her body still feels like it's about to spontaneously combust. Damn.

He takes a deep breath, the hot, damp atmosphere getting to him; that's when he realizes that the sheets are soaked with sweat. Ug. Can't be good for Kate. But he can't possibly wake up Bénédicte for this –

Oh, man up, Rick.

Of course you can. It's your wife's health at stake here.

Right. First thing is to get Kate out of the bed. A sure-fire way to get her temperature down would be to run a hot bath for her; he can't remember if the en-suite bathroom has a shower or a bathtub.

As gently as he can, he pushes back the covers and separates himself from Kate. She makes a small sound of discontent, but rolls to her other side, curls up – she's too out of it to really notice. He gets to his feet, and his left knee almost gives way under him. Ouch. That's what he gets for not granting his body enough sleep; he hates, hates getting old.

He's not old. Not-uh. He's in his prime.

The bathroom does have a tub; he turns the water on with a relieved sigh, tries to keep it quiet so it won't wake their hosts. Turning back, he glances at the reflection in the mirror; his hair looks like it's pointing at every possible direction, his eyes heavy with the lack of sleep.

Ah, well.

Heading back to the darkness of their room, he squats down beside Kate, rests his palm to her forehead. Yeah. She's not doing any better.

"Kate," he prompts quietly, his thumb stroking her hairline. Jeez, she's drenched.

He's left the bathroom door ajar, so there's a ray of light falling on her waist; he curls his other hand on it, hoping to rouse her slowly.

"Kate, love, I need you to wake up."

She moves a little, shifts until she's facing him completely, and then her eyes open at once, dark and hazy, fever-glazed.

It takes awhile for her to focus on him.

"Castle," she rasps at last, and his stupid heart leaps, the relief of seeing her conscious wiping out everything else.

"Hey," he greets, brushing her sweaty cheek.

Her eyes flutter shut, then open again, a little more aware.

"I'm sick," she says, a streak of disgust in her voice. He wants to laugh – Kate – leans in to kiss her lips, unable to resist.

"Yes," he agrees in a murmur.

She pushes him away, trying to sit up, and even that makes him ridiculously happy. The fact that she's herself enough to deflect his over-eagerness.

Kate shivers, wraps her arms around her waist. "Why's everything wet?" She wonders aloud, peeling the sheets off her legs and cradling her knees to her chest.

"You have a fever, Kate," Castle points out gently, his hand finding purchase on her shoulder. He cannot *not* touch her.

She wrinkles her nose, clearly displeased. "I did this? Ug, Castle. Why didn't you wake me?"

"I tried a couple times," he explains, "but I figured… Maybe it was better to let you sleep it off."

"Which obviously hasn't worked," she observes, resting her forehead to her knees. "Oh, god. I hate this."

"I ran a bath for you," he says, gathering her in his arms when he feels her body tremble. She doesn't ward him off. "I don't think it's very healthy for you to stay in those wet sheets."

"What are you gonna do? This isn't our house, Castle. These people have already been kind enough to let us stay here –"

"And surely they'll be kind enough to lend us a set of clean sheets," he opposes, quiet but immovable. "I can give them money for the trouble, Kate."

"N-No," she argues feebly, "I'm paying…"

"I don't care, Beckett. You're my wife. It's my job to take care of you. And I'll do whatever's necessary."

He feels better with each word spoken, the truth and depth of that statement hitting him deep in his bones, finding a solid anchor in his chest. He is ready to defend his position, ready to fight, but Kate ducks her head with a sigh, seems to relent.

Guilt immediately eats him up; she's sick and here he is like an idiot, arguing over money.

"Okay, bath time." He is going to lift her in his arms, but she shoves him off, glares at him with whatever strength she has.

"I'm not an invalid, Castle."

"Right, right. Sorry."

Still, he hovers as she gets up, her legs too wobbly for his taste as she makes her slow way to the bathroom.

She pauses at the door, looks down at herself in realization.

"You undressed me," she states, and he can't tell from her voice if it's a good thing or not. He hastens to explain.

"I figured – it was better for you to sleep naked than in yesterday's clothes, and I would have left you in your underwear, except it was still a little damp from the rain and I thought –"

The light press of her fingers to his mouth stops him; tenderness shines at the back of her eyes, in her soft smile.

"You did good, Castle," she murmurs. "And it's nothing you haven't seen before," she adds with an arch little look.

He watches her as she gets in the tub, sighing with relief as she tilts her head back and soaks her dark locks.

Ah, the hair may not be the best idea – they'll have to dry it before she gets back into bed. He should have thought of that. On the other hand, it was already damp with sweat. Eh. Doesn't matter.

He goes back into the bedroom, rummages through his backpack to find the meds that he packed. And – ah, yeah. A bottle of water will do it.

"Kate?"

Her eyes slide open, darker, more awake than before. He loves the way she looks with her wet hair curling onto her shoulders, maybe because he's never seen her more raw and vulnerable – no make-up on her face, not a stitch of clothing on her body, the pale beauty of her skin exposed for his hungry eyes.

He sucks in a quick breath; a ghost of a smile haunts her lips for a second.

"Here," he says, handing her the pills and the water. "Hopefully the Tylenol will help."

"Thanks, Rick," she murmurs, sitting up and taking the stuff from him.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, peering at her face.

She swallows the pills and takes a sip of water before meeting his eyes.

"Better, I think. My head hurts, but it's probably just exhaustion. The bath feels good," she adds, scraping up a smile for him.

He hates that she's sick, but he *does* love that she doesn't feel the need to lie to him about it.

Castle palms her neck with his hand, his thumb stroking her jaw, her cheek; Kate closes her eyes, leans into it. He presses a soft kiss to her lips before releasing her.

"You okay staying in here on your own for a little bit? I need to go find Bénédicte, ask her if I can change the sheets."

"I'm not a child, Castle," she scolds, but her voice is weak and fatigue-heavy, and the very way she curls back in the tub with a silent sigh takes away all of her authority.

"Okay, then. I'll be right back. Don't fall asleep, Kate."

"I won't," she promises quietly, and he believes her.

He dips a hand in the bath to make sure the water is still warm enough – it's scalding – then reluctantly tiptoes out, pulling the door closed behind him.

The strength of his connection to her still surprises him sometimes; the way his body yearns for her, the way his mind needs the certainty of her nearby in order to settle. Kate.

He finds Bénédicte in the kitchen, and guilt springs inside him when he realizes that they may have woken her.

"Oh, no," she assures him when he voices his fear. "Don't worry, it's not you. I woke and felt thirsty, so I came down here for a glass of water. Do you want one?"

"Hum, no, thanks. Actually, I was going to look for you. Kate's not feeling very well – she woke up drenched in sweat, with a fever –"

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that," she interrupts with such feeling that he's immediately grateful. "Do you want me to call a doctor or something? There is this really great guy in the next village, although I'm not sure he takes calls at three in the morning –"

"Don't trouble yourself," Rick says quickly. "She'd probably kill me if I called a doctor now. We'll wait until the morning, see how she feels then – but in the meantime, would you have a spare set of sheets that we could borrow, by any chance?"

"Of course, yes," Bénédicte answers, putting down her glass and gesturing for him to follow her. "I should have thought of this. Nothing worse when you're sick than to get back to wet sheets."

Castle's heart pounds with relief, his gratitude for the woman's understanding a little overwhelming.

She opens a closet in the corridor, reaches inside with the sure hand of someone who knows where everything is.

"There you go," she says, putting lavender-scented sheets in his arms and closing the door. "Is there anything else I can help with, anything else you need? Medicine maybe?"

He smiles at her in the darkness. "No, thanks, I think we're good. But thank you – so much – for this. If there's anything we can do to repay you – maybe give you the money for dry-cleaning these, I don't know…?"

She huffs in a friendly manner, gives his shoulder a playful slap. "Don't even talk about it. We're glad to help. We don't need anything."

"But –"

"Hush now," she orders gently. "Do you want me to help changing the sheets?"

"I'll be fine on my own," he says firmly, determined not to ask anything more from her. "You should go back to bed. I'm sorry for all the inconvenience."

"No inconvenience," she says warmly, then wishes him goodnight and disappears back upstairs.

Castle is left somewhat stunned in the corridor, wondering if everyone in the south of France is as helpful and amiable as this woman.

Because if they are – he is *so* moving here.


	14. Chapter 14

The room is blessedly dark and silent when the first jog of consciousness stirs her. Eyes still closed, Kate rolls onto her other side; she is surprised to find Castle there. So close. She doesn't usually sleep so close to him, but he does sometimes snuggle up during the night, sneakily wrapping himself around her.

Clingy Castle.

She purrs in satisfaction - he can't hear her anyway; his breathing is way too deep and even for him to be awake - and burrows into his side, her nose brushing his ribs, rubbing in his sleepy smell.

Mmm. Mornings with Castle. She likes these.

The whole length of her quivers with something so lovely and peaceful that it can't even be called arousal; it's more like a humming acknowledgment of his presence, her body greeting his, bidding him welcome.

Her...naked body? Kate lifts an eyelid in drowsy surprise, her mind lazily starting up and looking for an explanation. The hazy image of a bath trembles into her memory: she holds on to it, waits for it to clear before she carefully unwinds the rest of the night.

Oh, right. The fever. The bath. Castle changing the sheets and insisting that they dry her hair when all she wanted to do was to go back to sleep. Kate licks her lips and feels her forehead with the back of her hand; she's never been very good at gauging her own temperature, but it seems okay. She feels okay - much better than last night.

At least she has control over her own brain again; it's stopped spinning never-ending, ridiculous, senseless stories. Thank god.

Closing her eyes, Kate sighs in relief and wills her body to go back to sleep. Alas, it doesn't work like that; once awakened, her mind is never so keen on going back to oblivion. She tries for a few minutes anyway, then gives up; she's curious to know what time it is.

Even though the darkness enveloping the room is deep and soothing, a ray of light at the top of the window seems to suggest that the sun is already up. Holding her breath, Kate twists in Castle's embrace, stretching her neck to catch a glimpse of the clock that she remembers seeing on her bedside table.

Eleven... Eleven forty-five.

Oh, shit.

Shit, shit, shit. A very clear picture of her map of southern France unfolds in Kate's mind, the distance they're supposed to cover today flashing at her; and they're late already, and she had this plan to stop in those lovely medieval villages called bastides –

She turns back to Rick, anxious to wake him, get back on track, follow the plan; but the moment she sees his sleep-slack face, his mouth half-open and his rumpled hair, all the urgency inside her vanishes. The only thing left is her love for this man – her acute awareness of how patient, how attentive he was last night; how well he took care of her.

Kate Beckett can take care of herself. This is not a matter of debate; they both know it. Hell, Castle probably learned this the hard way. But last night - feeling his arms around her as she shivered, hearing the soothing words of comfort he breathed against her temple –

She had forgotten. She had forgotten how nice it could be, to let someone care for you. To not have to do this alone.

And now she's a little breathless, a little dizzy with that knowledge.

She can't reach Castle's lips from where she is, not without waking him; so she kisses the skin she has at her disposal, the soft warmth of his shoulder; she brushes her mouth along the curve of his biceps, awed and joyful and in love.

So in love with him.

* * *

><p>Tickles. That's the first blurry word to emerge from the confusion that is Rick Castle's brain in the morning.<p>

It tickles.

Castle groans and attempts at moving his arm, hoping to get rid of the fly, or whatever insect it is that landed on him. But it's resilient; even after a few rolls of Rick's shoulder, it's still there, and it seems to be getting…larger?

And it's warm. A little wet, too.

He opens a reluctant eye, his natural curiosity getting the better of him.

Oh.

No insect, but –

Kate Beckett's mouth. Mmm. He likes this much better, actually.

He hastens to shut his lids again, hoping that he can pretend to be asleep and enjoy the delicate caress of her lips for a while; of course, Kate isn't fooled.

"Hey, Rick," she murmurs, and he can hear the smile in her words, in her beautiful, low, sexy voice. No one, he thinks, no one can resist such a voice.

"Morning, Kate," he rasps back, and he has to open his eyes then – has to see the face that goes with that voice.

She's looking at him from under those dark lashes, her eyes dark too, beautiful, bright against the dimness of the room, and his heart stumbles in his chest, so full.

He cranes his neck to steal a kiss from her, plunder that warm, ripe mouth that opens laughingly at his request; she feels so good, always fits so well against him. Kate.

When he abandons her lips, his lungs are empty but his memory is not: the details of last night have all come back to him. He studies her as he breathes, the lines around her eyes, her cheeks too pale for his taste – even flushed in pleasure like they are now.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, moving his hand and resting it against her forehead. She rolls her eyes but lets him do it, and he even thinks that there's a beginning of a smile right there, at the corner of her mouth.

"Much better," she says honestly. "Sleeping seven hours straight probably helped."

"Seven –?"

He glances over at the clock, eyes widening. "Oh. Seven. It's noon."

Kate hums, and he looks back at her soft, delicious smile, the amusement in her eyes. Jeez. He loves her.

"You should, uh, should probably take some more Tylenol," he says, clearing his throat, hoping to clear his mind as well. But well – he does have a naked Kate pressed against him.

Makes it hard not to be distracted.

"I'm fine," she whispers. Her hand curls around his side, and oh, that suggestive little press of her fingers –

"Kate," he half-scolds, half-groans. "Tylenol. Better safe than sorry."

He's not going to let this go, so could she please – please – stop trying to seduce him long enough to take the damn pills? He's seduced already; his hand is a tight fist from struggling not to reach out to her.

She appraises him, seems to realize he won't relent.

"Fine," she says, turning with a sigh to the meds that he left on her bedside table. There's an eye roll in her voice, but he thinks he can hear something else too, something deeper, a little rough. He will probably never know what it is, though, because just then his brain stutters, stops, silenced by the view she's unknowingly giving him.

She's had to pull out a toned, graceful arm to reach for the water bottle, and the sheet is sliding helplessly along her ribs. His eyes travel over the smooth expanse of her back, his mouth a little dry, captivated by the light shadows, the delicate relief of her vertebrae. He wants to kiss them, warm and unhurried, one after the other, trail his lips down her back until she shivers –

Kate pops the pills in her mouth and lifts the bottle to drink a few sips; he catches a glimpse of an alluring curve. His whole body thrums, strains toward it; his heart pounds enthusiastically, eager, aroused.

"Happy?" She asks when she looks back at him, her tone dry but her eyes dark and playful, so lovely. She did this on purpose?

"Very," he shoots back, and he grabs her wrist, tugs her forward. Kate loses her balance and falls right into him – which is oh, exactly what he intended – and he has to close his eyes against it, too good: the way she feels against him, this strange combination of curves and jutting bones, of straight lines and sharp angles. He can't wrap his mind around it; can't get enough of her.

He takes the opportunity to worship at her mouth, reverently nibbling on her bottom lip before he moves on to adore the corner of that smile she's trying to repress; she parts her lips on a sigh but he ignores her, places a string of kisses along the line of her jaw before he braces himself, reluctantly pulls away.

It's not what he wants (it's the _opposite_ of what he wants, really, and his always helpful brain provides him with a beautiful picture of what he *does* want: Kate's eyes wide and startled under him, her mouth parting on his name). But it is almost noon, and Kate probably has their day all scheduled – not to mention, he should probably go talk to Bénédicte at some point. Thank her for everything, tell her that Kate's doing better. The woman looked genuinely concerned last night –

"Where do you think you're going, Castle?" Kate's imperious voice breaks his train of thought, makes him look back at her in surprise. He's just pushed the covers back, the first step in getting out of bed – but Kate's hand is on his arm now, firmly holding him in place.

Oh?

"I, uh – I thought you'd want us to get out of bed. Start the day. Don't you have everything planned –"

His voice wavers, then dies off at the slow smile that plays on her face; her eyes are this deep, undecipherable green that tugs on his guts, leave him fascinated, helpless. A deer faced with a lioness.

He can't. Uh.

Can't think.

Kate's fingers wander from his wrist to his shoulder, and from there to his chest, excruciatingly slow. She traces the lines of his collarbone and makes him shiver, the soft brush of anticipation creeping over him.

And then without warning her hand curls behind his neck, yanks him to her; she takes his mouth, ruthless, her dirty-moving tongue taking advantage of his surprise, slipping inside before he's even aware of it.

His mind is thoroughly wiped – a blissful blank – he can only take it, take that brutal, heated assault, and try not to surrender, to give as good as he gets.

"Screw the plan, Castle," she breathes against his lips when she comes up for air, the tease of her fingers along his ribs making him squirm.

Oh, okay. Yeah. He can do that. Screw the plan and, you know. Anything else she wants him to.

Especially if she keeps doing – oh, yeah – that –

"Kate," he lets out in a strangled gasp, encouragement and warning both.

She laughs, the low, throaty sound rippling through him; and then she bites him. Actually bites him, her teeth around his bottom lip, not letting go, and oh –

His wife is evil.

* * *

><p>Kate lies on her back, listening to her body's quiet complaint as she breathes in and out, the oxygen tingling in her lungs. Not quite a burn, but not exactly comfortable either.<p>

Okay. So she's still sick, and might have overdone it a little. But, she thinks with a sly smile as she tunes in to Castle's labored breathing, turns to catch the stunned expression that lingers on his face – it was oh, so worth it.

She curls onto her side, facing him. Castle's hand rests, open, on the pillow between them; Kate smiles and slides her palm into his, laces their fingers. The man she loves. Who loves her.

How did she get so lucky?

The phantom vision of a tiny baby sprawled on top of his chest shimmers before her eyes; she sucks in a breath, blinks. The image disappears.

Oh. Wow.

She remembers Hélène with Castle yesterday, her mischievous smile and his charmed laughter. Does she – does she want this?

She needs to stop, take a moment to think about it. Seriously think about it.

"What are you thinking?" Rick asks in a sleepy voice.

Uh. Kate weighs her options: she can lie and buy herself some more time, sure, but for some reason she's loath to do it. She likes how honest they've been with each other lately, and she remembers the promise she made herself.

More talking.

She bites her lip, takes the plunge.

"Did you ever – think of having more kids?"

His eyes open slowly, turn to her, a thoughtful blue. Not so sleepy after all, uh?

Castle rolls onto his side, untangles their fingers to prop his head up with his hand, seeming to ponder his answer.

"Yes," he says. "And no."

She lifts an eyebrow, silently inviting him to explain.

"After Alexis," he starts, then pauses. He shakes his head, as if unhappy with the way he started the story, and tries again. "You know how much I love Alexis. I loved her from the very first moment I learned of her existence, Kate. Meredith wasn't so pleased with being pregnant, and hell, I was scared too – I was terrified – but I knew right away. I knew that I wanted this baby. *My* baby. And that was all I cared about. Even after she was born, I was blinded, so absurdly happy and in love with my daughter – I didn't realize what I'd done. Not for a while."

"What you had done?" Kate echoes, unsure what he means. She knows that he regards Alexis as the best thing that ever happened to him. With good reason, if you ask her.

He works his jaw, and she wants to brush her fingers to it, soothe the tension there.

"I didn't realize what a flimsy excuse for a mother I had given her," he sighs. "Meredith was never cut out to be a mom, but I didn't stop once to consider that. I wanted my baby, my dream family. The things I didn't have growing up. It had almost nothing to do with Meredith. And that – that was wrong, Kate."

The certainty, the sorrow in his eyes make her heart ache for him; she reaches out, her fingertips a caress along his arm.

"But you love Alexis, Castle. You've always been everything she needed."

He smiles, some pride mingling with the sadness on his face. "I tried my best. Tried to…make up for my mistake. But no one can be a mom and a dad at the same time, no matter how hard they try. And as much as I wanted a little brother or sister for Alexis, I'd learned my lesson – promised myself I would never inflict Meredith onto another child."

"So, not with Meredith," Kate says, struggling with the tightness in her throat. "But someone else?"

He looks at her with something like surprise, then smiles slowly, his free hand cupping her cheek.

"There was never a real candidate, Kate. None of the women I've been with could I picture as the mother of my children, not even Gina." He shivers. "Ew. Especially not Gina."

Kate presses her lips together and pushes back the laughter that threatens. "Castle," she scolds, shaking her head at him.

"Hey, I'm making it sound like a joke, but it's true. Gina made it very clear that she didn't want children, and by that time Alexis was already twelve, so I was… willing to give that up, you know? But. I should have known better."

"What do you mean, known better?"

"I mean, I couldn't see myself having kids with her – and I married her? That was just stupid, Kate. But…I was lonely, she was lonely. We made a good couple; everyone thought so. Said so. And, well. I was easily swayed."

"You were a different man," Kate says patiently, determined to defend him, if he won't defend himself. Rick looks up at her, his face open, eager, grateful.

"I hope so," he sighs. "Because I didn't deserve you then."

She grins at him, pleased that she knows the answer to that one.

"Oh yeah? Well, good. Because I didn't deserve you, either."

She loves the arch of his eyebrows, the interest and disbelief meshed on his handsome face. Ruggedly handsome. He's not exactly wrong about that.

"I'd have slammed the door in your face, Castle," she laughs, even though it's actually kind of sad. "I would never, ever, have let you in."

"How do you know?" He suggests with a sly grin. "Maybe I'd have stuck my foot in the door, kept you from closing it."

"I would never have opened it in the first place."

"Then I would have laid siege to it," he claims, inching closer in a not-so-subtle move, leaning on his elbows.

"Oh, yeah? With what? Your army of words?"

Her heart gives a little flutter when he moves again, his mouth a whisper away from hers now.

"Maybe," he murmurs, his breath hot on her lips. "My words seem to work quite well on you, don't they?"

She can't really answer that without either lying to his face or puffing up his ego, so she takes the easy way out: she closes the little space that's left between them, kisses him.

His mouth is soft, moist, welcoming; she accepts the hospitality that he's offering, her tongue moving in, drinking from him. It's a deep, bottomless well of a kiss that leaves her dizzy, her head swimming with meaning; she rests her forehead to his temple, her lips still flirting with his jaw.

Castle's mouth is at her ear; he seems to be waiting to speak.

"And Kate, just so you know. You're the only woman I can imagine having kids with."

Her breath chokes in her chest; she has to blink back the sudden, insistent tears that push at her eyelids.

Oh. Rick.

"You just have to say the word," he finishes, his voice so gentle and undemanding, so adoring that she can't – she can't –

"There's nothing I'd love more than children with you, Kate."

Oh, damn it. A runaway tear slides down her cheek, falls on Castle's shoulder. It's followed by another, and another, and ug, she's powerless to stop them.

He's won. She's crying.


	15. Chapter 15

Castle lets her shower first, tells her he's going to see if he can find Bénédicte. It's well after one now, and though Kate feels a twinge of guilt for using the bedroom as if it were theirs, and not thinking once about their hosts, she just can't bring herself to regret it.

_There's nothing I'd love more than children with you_.

She's not even sure how she feels about this, apart from the breathless amazement that she can't shake off – doesn't want to shake off?

Only Rick Castle.

She smiles and tilts her head back, offering more of her neck and shoulders to the deliciously hot spray. Her body hurts, but it's a gentle hurt – the long fingers of exhaustion brushing at her ribs, caressing her calves and thighs.

She can no longer tell if the sore spots are because she's sick or because of what Castle's been doing to her, and she likes it that way. They're probably a combination of both, anyway: fever has left her body vulnerable, weaker than she's used to – weaker than she likes – and Rick's ministrations on top of that…

Kate bites her lip, then releases it, unleashes her smile. Yeah. No wonder she's sore.

Her only comfort, she thinks with relish as she remembers Castle stumbling out of bed, is that he's in a similar state. And *he* does not have fever as an excuse.

"Kate?"

The sound of his voice rouses her; she turns off the water, snatches a towel from the rack.

"Yeah?"

He walks in, still wearing his shorts but not the t-shirt he put on when he set out to find Bénédicte. Kate's eyes linger on the finely chiselled lines of his abs; she doesn't understand how he keeps himself in such good shape, when she never hears him talk about running or going to the gym.

When her eyes finally make it to his face, he's smirking – of course he is. Kate arches an eyebrow and gives him that slow, sexy grin that never fails her; she steps closer and watches as the smirk falls off his face, replaced by something darker, more primal.

Her own body shivers in anticipation, the muscles that felt so sore moments ago now quivering with eagerness – the miracles of arousal.

But she knows better; the relief is only temporary, and she doesn't really have the energy to sustain her body's desires – no matter how much she might wish otherwise. So she forces herself to take a mental step back, to slowly release her breath.

"What were you gonna say?" she asks softly, curling a hand around Rick's neck, her thumb brushing his ear. Love and apology both.

He swallows, the expression on his face shifting, softening as his blue eyes clear. He rests a hand on top of hers, lacing their fingers before he tugs and brings her hand to his mouth, kisses it gently.

No apology needed, the kiss says.

"Bénédicte left a note for us. Her husband's at work, and she took Hélène to a playground close to here. She drew a map for us, if we want to join them; she said she didn't want to wake us, figured we needed the sleep."

"Oh," Kate says, surprised and grateful. "That's really kind of her."

"It is," Castle agrees with a smile, before giving her a questioning look. "So, I don't know what you want to do, what the plan was, but it seems obvious to me that you're in no shape to walk around –"

"I'm fine, Rick," she cuts him off, unsure if she's annoyed or touched that he cares so much.

She expects him to fold, but he doesn't; his eyes bore into hers, confident and full of an authority that she rarely, if ever, sees on him. Oh. She rather likes it, if the tightening in her guts is any indication.

"You *feel* fine, Kate," he says, gentle but firm, "but you still need rest. You don't need to be walking miles and miles; you can't ask too much of your body right now. So my suggestion is, let's take our time today. Maybe join Bénédicte and Hélène at the park, or maybe just visit the village – it looks lovely. And tonight," he adds when she opens her mouth to object, "we can take the train to our next destination, wherever that is. Bénédicte said that there's a small railway station here, so it's worth considering."

Kate presses her lips together, taking it all in. She loves being in control, loves having a plan, but she has to admit that at this point, the plan has already gone slightly awry.

And Castle's proposition makes sense.

He doesn't seem put out by her silence; he leans in to kiss her cheek, her lips, light touches that do not ask for anything in return.

"Think about it, love. I'll take a shower while you get dressed, and then we can talk. You're still the one in charge," he reminds her, a smile crinkling his blue eyes.

Her heart flutters.

Just for that, she captures his chin with her fingers, plants a thorough one on him, her tongue teasing his teeth and the roof of his mouth before she lets him go, pleasure sizzling through her veins at the stunned, happy sigh he lets out.

"I love you," she says, the words spilling out of her, tasting good, tasting right on her lips.

Castle beams at her, his face suffused with the child-like joy that looks so good on him; he pulls her in his arms, into a bone-crushing hug.

"I love you too," he breathes in her ear, "Mrs. Castle."

And though it's not *really* her name – not at the precinct, anyway – she can't help the shiver that runs down her spine.

* * *

><p>Kate is sitting on the bed, fiddling with his iPhone, when he comes out of the bathroom. He drops the towel on the bed, ruffles his wet hair with his other hand, trying to get it to dry faster.<p>

Which is kinda stupid, actually, since he can see the sun shining through the window, can already feel how warm it is outside.

Leaving his hair alone for now – he'll have to check in the bathroom mirror, because he *knows* that it must be sticking out in every direction – he lets himself sink onto the bed, presses a quick kiss to Kate's cheek.

She gives him an absent smile, absorbed in whatever she's doing. He tries to peek, but gets distracted by the way the sunlight reflects in her eyes, the flecks of brown turned golden in a sea of green.

Beautiful.

"Hmm," she says, breaking his contemplative mood as she turns to him. "You're right. The train might be a good idea."

"Yeah?" Surprise collides with pleasure, especially when Kate leans forward, brushes her mouth to his jaw. Lingers.

"Yeah," she breathes, and he struggles not to squirm as hot, tantalizing air fans his cheek. "Smelling good, Castle," she adds, her lips curving into a smile at his ear, her voice halfway between laughing and seductive.

He captures her elbow, his fingers splaying over the smooth skin, and turns his head so that their mouths are brushing together. God, he loves this. "Just for you, Kate," he murmurs, and he licks lazily at her lower lip, curious to know exactly how slow and exquisite he can make this.

She seems to sense his mood; instead of the ruthless takeover from before, he just gets light touches, glimpses of her mouth, of her elusive tongue. He used to love hide-and-seek as a kid, loved the thrill of chasing and being chased, and this – this is exactly the same.

Well, a sexier version. His gorgeous wife and her warm, velvety tongue saying, _come and get me_.

Oh, he wants to.

But just then, her stomach lets out a loud, unmistakeable noise, and he breaks away on a laugh, delighted with the frustration on Kate's face. She closes her eyes and shakes her head, fighting off a smile.

"Okay," she admits. "I'm starving. Can you, hum, hold that thought?"

She gives him a look that has apology, amusement and arousal laced together, and he's irresistibly drawn to her mouth again, butterfly to a shiny, red, sweet-smelling flower.

"Always," he promises.

* * *

><p>They stop at a boulangerie (Kate's always liked the French word much better than "bakery", all these syllables full of lovely sounds) to buy lunch, Castle's eyes filled with child-like wonder as he gazes at the pastries.<p>

She smiles and makes her own choices, picking a slice of quiche that looks heavenly and then a small raspberry pie (torte?) for dessert, before turning to her husband.

"What do you want?"

"I, uh." He hesitates, clearly torn. "I don't know. Why do they have so many things, anyway? It's impossible to choose. I want to try them all."

Kate bites her lip to keep herself from laughing at his little boy whine, at the intense way he knits his eyebrows as he considers. He lets out a slow breath, like he's preparing himself.

"Ok. Ok. I want…the "religieuse" thing, and that too – the "Saint-Sernin"."

She follows the point of his finger, has to admit that the Saint-Sernin looks rather appealing, layers of what looks like cream and flaky crust with a sugary glaze – exactly the kind of thing Castle would go for.

"Both of them are pastries," she objects. "Don't you want something salty?"

"Uh. No?"

He looks at her, blue eyes wide and pleading, and Kate shrugs. She's not going to argue about it – this is breakfast and lunch together, and she knows that breakfast is his favourite meal (something to do with being able to eat only pancakes if you want, she gathers).

So she'll let him have his sugary stuff.

"Want something to drink?" she asks, nodding towards the soft drinks behind the counter.

"Hm, no. Just water."

She asks for two bottles of still water on top of the rest, pays for it all, surprised at how cheap it is. The girl at the cash register – who looks like she's about seventeen – gives her a wide smile as she hands her the bag, and wishes them a good day.

"People are just so nice here," Castle says happily as they walk out into the street. Kate ducks her head, hiding her smile, but he sees it anyway.

"What? It's true!"

He's adorable. She loves that cute defensive look on him, the way his face comes alive with it. Mouth, eyes, chin. Everything.

But that doesn't mean he's right.

"Castle, we just bought stuff from that girl in the bakery. Of course she would smile at us. If she knows anything about business, then she knows it's the right way to go. Making a sour face at customers is *not* how you get them to come back. I'm sorry, but it doesn't have much to do with being nice."

He opens his mouth, then closes it, his brow furrowing in reflection.

"Fine. Let's forget that girl in the boulangerie, even though I don't agree with you. How about Bénédicte? You can't say she isn't nice."

Kate bites her lip, smiling because she can't help it, because his determination to find kindness in people, to show her that the world is a beautiful place, is part of why she loves him so much.

She's not so sure she wants to have this discussion, after all.

"No, I can't. You're right. She is very nice."

He gives her a suspicious look. She doesn't know if it's because she doesn't sound convincing, or because he doesn't expect her to agree this quickly.

"But…?" He pushes, knowing her too well.

She sighs. "But." She doesn't even want to say this. It seems unfair, ungrateful, to criticize the woman who gave them a bed last night, didn't ask for anything in return.

"I'm not saying she isn't nice," she warns him. "I'm just saying, she was very happy to speak English with us. And it's – at least partly – the reason why she invited us. Because she was glad to get a chance to practice her English. So even though it was very kind, there was some self-interest in there, too."

He watches her for a long time, his head cocked, thoughtful.

"So you think there's no such thing as selflessness?" he asks at last, his face neutral. "That people are never kind without a motive?"

Yeah, no. She doesn't like this conversation. Not one bit. Kate presses her lips together, looks down at the sidewalk for inspiration.

"I think," she says slowly, "that most of the time, good actions are prompted by selfish reasons. It doesn't mean they're any less good, just – most people do them because well, they're feeling guilty for something, or they want to…feel good about themselves."

She lifts her eyes to him. He's still staring at her, his eyes unreadable; it's making her nervous. "Castle…"

"You're wrong," he says, and even though his words are quiet, his voice is deep and sure, weighed with a confidence that she feels down to her bones. A confidence she wishes she had. "You're wrong, Kate."

There's no anger in his tone, no disappointment, no bitterness. Simply this beautiful certainty as he pulls her in his arms, slowly, his hands at her elbows, his lips coming to rest at her cheekbone.

Her eyes are closed, her chest tight with an emotion that she can't quite define, but feels an awful lot like gratitude.

Gratitude for what?

"There's true kindness in the world," he promises against her temple, and she gets the strange feeling that he's done this before, with Alexis maybe, consoling his little girl after some kid at school was mean. "Just like there is true love."

He presses his mouth to her hair, so gentle and soothing, and another wave of it rolls through her – gratitude, yes, for his resolute optimism and the way he never gives up on her, keeps trying to convince her even though she makes such a poor disciple.

"You believe in true love, Kate?"

She nods into his neck, wordless but vehement, because really it would be hypocritical of her to pretend otherwise when she's got Castle's body against her, the warm, steady length of him, his words at her ear.

Rick.

His lips become a smile, a lovely curve at her temple.

"Good," he murmurs. "Because I do too."

* * *

><p>The park where Bénédicte has taken Hélène is easy to find. It's not far, and the map she's left for them gives explicit instructions. Castle finds the shade of the tall trees immensely appealing, especially at this time of the day – early afternoon – when the heat is most intense. He has Kate's hand in his when he pushes the little gate, and she squeezes his fingers, makes him pause.<p>

He waits for her to finish the last of her quiche, loving the slow, smooth work of her jaw as she chews, the tiny crumb that sticks to the corner of her mouth. He lifts his hand to brush it off just when Kate tries to do the same with her tongue: she ends up licking his thumb. Their eyes meet; she takes back her tongue even as her parted lips curve into a full-blown smile, her face bright with mirth, soft with love.

When he doesn't take back his thumb, she gently bites on it, something darker flashing in her eyes; he has to suck in a deep breath, look away, in order to break the spell.

God, Kate.

She takes pity on him, brushes a sweet kiss to his cheek before she takes his hand.

"Come on, Castle. Let's go see Bénédicte and little Hélène."

Right. Yes. That.

He follows her into the garden, a little dazed still, trying to gather his wits.

Bénédicte and her mass of dark, frizzy hair are easy to spot; she is sitting at a picnic table with her back to them, talking to another woman who looks slightly older. The woman has red hair cut into a bob that frames her face perfectly, but her eyes are cold, dead things, even when she smiles. Castle doesn't like her. It's a gut feeling, instinctive and so strong that he has to force himself to keep moving forward.

Kate doesn't seem to have noticed; she passes him to greet and shake hands with both women, in that easy, warm manner that always earns her the trust of a victim's family when they start a new case.

It never ceases to amaze him, that someone so independent and guarded as Kate can also have these social skills, this natural ability with people. Like she can sense what they need, give it to them.

He ought to use this more in Nikki Heat.

"I'm so glad you're feeling better," Bénédicte is saying, giving Kate a relieved smile that only endears her more to the writer. She then switches to French, probably explaining who they are to her red-haired companion; it's too fast for Rick to follow, and he's distracted anyway by the feel of small fingers tugging on his hand.

Looking down, he's not very surprised to find Hélène's serious little face lifted towards him. She's wearing a green shirt of the exact same color as her eyes, and a white, flounced skirt that looks entirely too cute; Castle is suddenly reminded of the time when Alexis dressed just like this, frills and bows and girly headbands. His heart melts, the silly thing, and he squats down so he can be eye-level with Hélène.

"Hi, little one," he says quietly, smiling.

She bobs her head, observes him carefully. In any other child, he would call this shyness, but not with her. No, there's nothing shy in the deliberate way she studies him, appraises him as if to determine if he's worthy of her trust.

There's so much Kate in her. It's eerie.

After a minute she suddenly breaks into a wide grin – he seems to have passed the test – and holds out a confident hand to him.

"Balançoire," she says, and he puzzles over the word until she points to the swings. Oh. Swing. Balançoire. Mmm. He likes the sound of it.

"Okay," he answers, getting to his feet and glancing at Bénédicte and Kate to make sure they know where he's taking the girl. Bénédicte gives him a small nod of approval, and the expression on Kate's face –

Hélène tugs him forward and he almost trips over his own feet, stunned as he is by his wife's beauty, the tenderness that softens her whole being, shines out of her eyes. And not just tenderness, no.

There was a distinct glimmer of envy there, and she didn't even bother to hide it.

Kate Beckett –

Kate Beckett wants children with him.

He has to catch his breath at that, because the very sound of it is – too much, surreal. Just. Crazy.

Yes, yes, the conversation from this morning seemed to hint at that, but he thought she was maybe just…acknowledging it, that possibility. Children *are* a part of marriage, one they had said nothing about.

Not that he hasn't been thinking about it, of course, but… He thought Kate marrying him was already enough of a miracle; no need to rush things, to jeopardize their relationship by pushing her into something she wasn't ready for. Might never be ready for.

Well. Sure looks like she is now.

"Il faut me pousser," Hélène calls impatiently, and he snaps out of it, realizes that the little girl has perched herself on the swing and is now waiting on him.

Grinning, he circles the swing set and takes his place behind her, his hands on the chains.

"Prête?" he asks.

She gives a firm little nod; her dark curls catch the sunlight, shine with it.

He starts with gentle pushes – she's only three, after all, and if he remembers well Alexis wasn't comfortable with the swing going too high when she was this young – but Hélène keeps asking for more, and she doesn't even sound scared.

She doesn't sound particularly excited either, no giggles or anything of the sort; just this intense, silent concentration, and her determined voice asking for more.

It gets to a point that he honestly thinks is too high for such a small child, and Castle warns her that he's going to stop; he gives one last, tiny push and steps aside so he can look at her face.

The swing goes up, up; Hélène's little leg stretches, her foot a point towards the lowest branch of the tree that casts its shadow over the swing set. Just when Rick realizes that this was her goal all along, the little girl's toes brush one of the leaves; a triumphant, delighted sound escapes her as the swing goes down, and her whole body relaxes.

She presses her round mouth together until the swinging subsides, as if she regrets having let out this one giggle; but the pleasure twinkling in her eyes leaves no doubt as to her enjoyment.

So much like Kate. All of it.

Castle is enchanted, humbled, awed.

And God –

He wants this.


	16. Chapter 16

Kate listens politely to the conversation between the two women, feeling her interest wane as she does. Bénédicte tried to include her at the beginning, but every time Kate said something, the other woman - Jeanne, she's gathered - looked at her with carefully painted puzzlement. Kate tried repeating, tried pronouncing the words as clearly as she could (pretending all the while that she wasn't in the least offended by this unspoken comment on her French), but it quickly became obvious that Jeanne simply did not want to speak with her.

So she's kept quiet, and listened - since _she_ doesn't have any problems understanding Jeanne.

The relationship between the two women is more complex than it looks like at first. It's not friendship, at least not on Bénédicte's side of things, but it's taken Kate long enough to realize that, because their hostess from last night is so very well-mannered. Not only does she refrain from telling Jeanne to beat it, but she doesn't even look impatient or bored; she just stands there, nods and smiles.

Although her body does betray her a couple times. When Jeanne says something about the immigrants stealing jobs from worthy French people, Bénédicte's fist clenches at her side, no matter how poised her expression; and then a comment about one of their neighbours - Kate doesn't catch the name - has the smile on her face wavering for a second.

Kate comes to the conclusion that Jeanne must have some sort of influence over Bénédicte. Otherwise, she can't imagine why the younger woman would stay there and endure a speech that she obviously - at least, it's obvious to the detective - hates every word of. She's vaguely tempted to help (though she can't quite figure out how to do so), but she's also acutely aware that this is, after all, none of her business.

She catches a flash of movement from the corner of her eye and turns her head. Hélène has come back, silent as a shadow, and is now rummaging through the bag that her mother set on the ground. She seems to find what she's looking for, grinning as she gets something out, and runs off before Kate can tell what it was.

The dark-haired detective worries her lower lip; her heart longs to follow after the little girl, to spy on her husband playing with the child. She wants the innocence, wants that lungful of fresh air, away from whatever power struggle might be going on here. Another look at Bénédicte convinces her: the young woman is doing fine on her own, a convincing mask of eager approbation plastered on her face. She has no need for Kate.

Beckett excuses herself - Jeanne ignores her like she has all along - and Kate sighs in relief as she walks through the group of trees that Rick and Hélène disappeared behind. She catches the reflection of sunlight over the metallic structure of a swing set, but it's empty now. One of the swings is still swaying imperceptibly, as if a ghost child were tugging on the chain; Kate shakes her head at her own strange thoughts, and walks on.

She finds them at the next turn of the path. There's a sandbox in the middle of a small clearing, and Castle is sitting on the ledge, his back turned to her. She can't see Hélène from where she is, but she can hear the little girl chatting gaily in her own language; she seems to be having fun. Kate tiptoes closer, hoping to remain unnoticed; she wants to get a look at what they're doing first.

She expects Castle's head to swivel at any time - the man always seems attuned to her whereabouts - but he must be very absorbed into whatever he's doing. Kate steps very carefully, skirting the playground, and she immediately recognizes the toys that both Hélène and her husband are holding. Pressing a hand to her lips to keep the laughter from spilling, she grins against her fingers and watches for a moment.

Bénédicte's daughter is cradling a dark-haired Barbie in her little hand, walking her around and making her talk (it's more like sounds than actual words, but Barbie does have a lovely high-pitched voice). She's given Castle a sun-tanned, blonde-haired Ken who is clearly supposed to answer whatever comments Barbie is making, but Rick seems rather unsure what to do with him.

When Hélène lifts her eyes to him, expectant, Kate cannot help herself; she steps out of the trees' shade, walks up to them. Both heads turn to her as she sits down on the ledge beside Rick, and her heart flips at how adorable they look together, Barbies in hand, Castle with that cute helpless frown on his face and Hélène's green eyes shining with eagerness.

"Playing Barbies, Castle?" she asks playfully, arching an eyebrow while trying to push down that stupid maternal instinct, the warmth of it tingling in her chest.

He looks at her with equal measures of despair and delight; apparently, he thinks she's here to rescue him. Ha.

"Alexis never played with these," he complains in hushed tones, waving Ken at her like it's a very complicated weapon, and he can't figure out the mechanism. "She always said they were ridiculous. She went straight from dolls to that fake cash register that she loved and all those other toys -"

"So what, Castle? You can't improvise?"

She turns to Hélène, biting her lip at the look of indignation on her husband's face, and asks her gently what her Barbie's called.

The girl eyes her for a couple seconds before she says, "Kate."

Oh.

Kate knows that at this age, her own Barbies' names changed constantly, influenced by the books her mom read her, by the friends who visited, by what happened at school, but still, still -

She's being silly. "Okay," she says with a smile, holding a hand out. "Est-ce que tu veux bien me la prêter?"

Hélène doesn't seem very enthusiastic at the idea of parting with her toy, but she does tilt her head, considering. Kate leans in, a conspiring look on her face. "Rick va nous raconter une histoire," she explains, and she can see the girl's face brighten, anticipation in the curve of her mouth. Oh, the appeal of a good story.

The child hands the Barbie over to Kate without a second thought, and the detective grins, turns to Castle.

Who is looking at her, suspicion all over his face. "What are you doing, Kate? What did you tell her?"

She lifts her eyebrows in mock surprise. "And here I was, thinking you were fluent in French."

"Kate."

She smiles mysteriously and gives him the Barbie, noting with some amusement that he takes it, even though he's shooting her wary looks. God, she loves him. She wants to kiss the distrustful, childish pout away, wants to put back that blank, vacant look in his eyes.

Instead, she reaches for Hélène, helps the girl to settle between her legs.

"I told her you were going to tell us a story, Rick."

His eyes dance from her to the child, and back.

"In French." He gives her that little flick of his eyebrow that means, _you're crazy._

She grins at him, even lets him see a glimpse of her tongue, making sure the provocation is there, in her eyes.

"Yeah, Castle. You're not afraid of a little challenge, are you?"

He sighs, shakes his head at her - blue eyes twinkling with humor, the darker hue of a threat at the back of them - and he looks down at the Ken and the Barbie in his hands. Clears his throat.

Kate feels the familiar excitement bubble in her stomach, and Hélène's tiny fingers curl on her ankle.

"Il était une fois..."

* * *

><p>Bénédicte finds them as Castle is bringing his story to an end, granting Kate and James a beautiful wedding after all their adventures (not everybody gets to face pirates *and* aliens on the same day – Rick himself is a little jealous).<p>

The presence of Hélène's mother makes him a little nervous, and he stumbles on a couple words, even though he's done an okay job so far: he kept the vocabulary simple, and tried to pronounce the English words with a French accent when he didn't know their translation.

Hélène didn't seem to mind - laughed every time he did that - and Kate…

Ah. He's stopped looking at Kate, because that soft, close-lipped smile on her face – the way her eyes radiate joy, her arms loosely wrapped around the little girl –

Yeah. He's just. Stopped looking.

Only way he could keep the story going.

He racks his brain to remember the French for "and they lived happily ever after," but it won't come back. And he has a vague memory that the verb for live, _vivre_, does something tricky when you put it to past tense.

Better stick with what he knows.

"Et ils ont été très heureux," Castle concludes, darting a glance to Bénédicte to see what she thinks of it.

She gives a nod and a wink, and he feels a considerable amount of pride swell inside him.

The woman looked thoughtful when she joined them, her face clouded, but it's cleared now. Her grey eyes are sparkling gaily, and her smile makes her look a lot like her daughter. Hélène takes more after her dad, from what Castle saw last night, except when she smiles: the resemblance between them becomes striking then, just like the light beaming out of their eyes.

Bénédicte sits down next to them, allowing her daughter to climb onto her lap and running her fingers through the child's shiny curls.

"Thank you so much for this," she says, cutting her eyes to Kate and Rick. "For taking care of her. I –"

She sighs, shakes her head. "I told you that I give cooking classes in a, what was the word? Technical high school, right? Well, this woman, Jeanne – her son is in one of my classes, and she's also, hum… I don't know the word for this, but at the school we have representatives that speak for all of the students' parents?"

"Ah, yeah. PTA. Parent Teacher Association," Castle offers with a smile.

"Right. Well, Jeanne is the president of this thing. And she's *awful*, but somehow she always manages to be re-elected. She… I don't know, I think she knows the right people. She's a dangerous woman. She could get me sacked if she felt I was a threat to her and her...narrow-minded views."

"This is _so _not right," Kate exclaims, her cheeks flaming up and her dark eyes flashing with indignation. Gorgeous. He can't help staring at her. "Is there nothing you can do?"

Bénédicte rearranges her daughter's headband, then lets Hélène down, the little girl obviously tired of a conversation that she doesn't understand a word of. Castle wrenches his eyes off his wife, tries to remember where they are, what this is about.

"A few of my colleagues tried, last year," the young woman tells Kate with a shrug and a tired smile. "And they all got fired. On various motives, of course, and none of them having anything to do with Jeanne, but still, we knew. So, I… I've kept a low profile since then, even though I hate it. Her. The whole thing."

"And couldn't you - teach somewhere else?"

He loves the way Kate always wants to help, the way she always feels so strongly about others' misfortunes, but in this case he doubts much good will come of it. And it seems to be depressing Bénédicte rather than helping her.

So he grabs a loose hold of his wife's fingers, gives a gentle squeeze, hoping the message will come through. _Go easy on her._

"This job is really perfect for me," Bénédicte is saying with no small amount of regret. It's close to here, and I can spend time with Hélène, and... I get to do what I love. I've thought about it, but there's really no way around it."

Kate presses her lips together, her eyes still glittering with unhappiness, but she says no more.

"So," he jumps in, resolved on being cheerful and changing the subject. "How far is the train station from here?"

"Oh, it's really close. Pretty central," their hostess answers with a relieved smile. "You've decided on the train then?"

"Yes," Castle answers, looking at Kate. "I don't know our destination yet, but Kate said it would work just as well."

"Ooh, mysterious," their hostess says, genuine delight lighting up her face. "I love that. Although I'm amazed, really. How did you manage to be the one in charge of the honeymoon, Kate? I remember *my* husband being all possessive and secretive about ours – he would hardly let me pack my own suitcase."

Interested, Rick arches an eyebrow and waits for the answer. He's curious to hear Kate explain it. When the silence stretches, he glances over at her; hesitation is on every line of her face. Ah.

Bénédicte, for all her kindness, remains somewhat of a stranger. He can tell that Kate isn't sure how much she wants to share. Or how much she should share, maybe?

"We, hum, we made a deal," she says at last, the lightest hint of pink colouring her cheeks.

Oh, wow. Kate Beckett embarrassed. He never thought he'd see the day.

"A deal?" The other woman turns to her with a curious smile, and she must notice the reluctance in the detective's eyes, the guardedness of her posture, because she drops the subject immediately.

"Well. You must be one hell of a negotiator," she comments with a friendly laugh.

Castle is half-disappointed that he won't hear Kate's account of it, and half-grateful to Bénédicte for being so perceptive and leaving his wife alone. Of course, gratitude ends up winning.

The young mother turns to her daughter, who is very busy making sandcastles. Uh. No, not castles. Sand...pastries?

"Hélène, tu viens?" Bénédicte asks gently. "C'est l'heure du goûter."

The words seem to have a magical effect on the child; in the space of a second, all her absorption in her sand constructions disappears and she lifts an eager look to her mother.

"Je pourrai avoir du Nutella?"

A dimpled, mischievous smile accompanies her question, and Bénédicte laughs.

"Peut-être," she answers with a wink. "Si tu es sage."

"Je suis sage! Je suis très très sage," Hélène insists, running to Kate and grabbing her hand. "Dis-lui, Kate, que je suis sage."

Kate lets out a surprised laugh, but Castle sees the flash of delight in her eyes. It makes his stomach flip, just to think -

Stop. He needs to stop.

"Well, it's true," Kate answers with a small grin, unaware of him and his vivid daydreams. "She was very good during Rick's story. Didn't interrupt once."

"Mmh." Bénédicte draws out the sound, pretending to think. "Je pense que tu as mérité ton Nutella, alors."

The little girl beams and, this time, runs to her mother, throwing her arms around her waist.

"Merci maman," she mumbles, her face mashed into Bénédicte's dress.

Hélène is adorable, yes, but it's a stolen glance at Kate - isn't it always? - that undoes him. Kate, who is watching mother and daughter with such tenderness it makes her eyes crinkle, and not a trace of bitterness. No sadness, no longing, just.

Just this beautiful emotion that breaks her open, lets the light pour out.

His wife.

And he cannot push back the one thought that takes over, the thought he's been trying to ignore all afternoon, all for nothing.

He wants, so badly, to see her face when she gets to hold their child for the first time.


	17. Chapter 17

When they get back to the house, Hélène insists on them having some Nutella (Barbie Kate is eating too!) before they go, and Kate cannot resist the pleading look in those big green eyes, that cute little mouth.

So she spreads a generous layer of Nutella over the toast that Bénédicte hands her - why do things halfway, right? - and then takes a bite, immediately having to stifle a moan of pleasure. For some reason, it's been a while since the last time she had some of the hazelnut spread, and she had forgotten.

Forgotten exactly how delicious it is. Jeez. She forces her eyes open as she swallows, glad that she at least refrained from compromising sounds, but she meets Castle's gaze, a darker shade of blue, and realizes how pointless it was to keep silent.

He can read it all on her face, can't he?

Feeling the familiar heat tingle in her belly, Kate resolutely turns away, taking another mouthful of her toast - oh, so good - and smiles when she sees that Hélène has smeared Nutella all over her chin and cheeks. The Barbie has been put on the table, probably for her own safety.

"Mon petit cochon," Bénédicte murmurs laughingly as she wipes it off her daughter's face.

The girl giggles reluctantly, shakes her head in an attempt to escape her mother's hand, and protests, "Je suis pas un petit cochon."

"Oh, non?" The young woman pretends to be surprised. "Mais tu es toute rose et tu sens très bon," she points out, and as if to prove her point, she leans in and kisses the junction between neck and shoulder, blowing a raspberry to the sensitive skin. Hélène squirms and squeals in delight, and Kate's heart squeezes, the want tight and almost painful in her chest.

She quickly finishes the toast, the Nutella-induced haze long gone, and turns to her husband.

"We should probably get going."

Rick is watching as well, his eyes tender, and she wonders if it brings out memories for him, reminds of a red-haired little girl he liked to tickle, too, or if -

If he's thinking of her. Of that conversation this morning.

She's a little breathless with the thought.

He slowly switches his focus to her, the smile on his face ripening, deepening into the one he reserves just for her. She impulsively reaches out, caressing the crow's feet at the corner of his eye, letting her fingertips trail the line of his jaw.

When she gets to his chin, he ducks his head to kiss her fingers, his mouth warm and welcoming. Arousal flares, a lick of fire at her insides, and she forces herself to step back.

"We should go," he agrees quietly, the rasp in his voice telling her that she's not the only one affected.

But Castle recovers faster, turns to Bénédicte, who has stepped forward.

"Thank you again," he says, the gratitude in his voice all the stronger for its sincerity. "Honestly, I wish you'd let us give you something in return for your kindness. I'm not just speaking about money -"

"Hush," the young woman says, her smile warm. "We don't need anything. And it was lovely to meet you both."

"At least," Kate interjects, "let us give you our address in New York. I mean, obviously, we'd love to hear from you, and if you ever come to the States - we can return your hospitality then."

Bénédicte turns to her, arching an interested eyebrow. "I guess there's nothing wrong with that," she agrees thoughtfully. "And it _would_ be nice to see you again. Let me find you some paper and a pen."

As their hostess rummages through a drawer, Kate feels Castle's eyes resting on her, looks up at him. There's a deep pleasure in the lines of his face, like her words have soothed something inside him, given him this sense of contentment; she thinks back, curious to know what she might have said to cause this.

Oh.

She said _our_. Our address.

Guilt pricks her heart as she realizes why it made him so happy. She still has her apartment, still gets her mail there, even though the majority of her stuff has been moved to the Castles' loft, even though she spends every night in Rick's bed. _Their_ bed.

She just...can't see what the hurry is. She loves her apartment. It was her safe place after she got shot, her shelter. Her home. And, okay, she's not really using it anymore, but does that mean she *has* to sell it right away?

Of course, maybe Rick read her reluctance in a very different way. She hasn't - hasn't really taken the time to explain, has she?

And she forgets sometimes, how much words mean to him - even the tiny pronouns that she doesn't think twice about before using. Richard Castle believes in words and their power. She ought to remember this, ought to know it better than anyone else.

She's chewing on her lip when Bénédicte comes back, holding a small notebook and a pen.

At least, she thinks as she writes it down, she knows Castle's address - *their* address, damn it - by heart, the number and street name just as familiar as her old ones. She adds her email address under it, and, after a second of hesitation, her cell phone.

She trusts this woman. The realization comes as a surprise, but it's true nonetheless.

"There," she says, handing the notebook back to Hélène's mom.

"Thank you," Bénédicte says, cradling it to her chest as if she knows exactly how much this means to Kate, how rare it is for her to open up like this.

She kisses both of them on the cheek, French style, and then lifts her daughter from her booster seat, asking her, "Tu veux dire au revoir, Hélène?"

The little girl squirms to be put on the floor, grabs her Barbie from the table, and levels a serious look on Rick and Kate.

Castle squats down, offers his hand.

Hélène presses her lips together, wavering, and then puts her doll in the proffered hand. Kate bites the inside of her cheek, hard, to keep herself from laughing; she can tell from her husband's face that he's having trouble as well.

"C'est pour moi?" he asks, his earnestness probably the best present he can give the child in return.

She nods once.

"Merci, Hélène," he says in the same tone, and a smile flickers on her lips. "Mais c'est ta Barbie. Je pense qu'elle est mieux ici, avec toi." His eyes travel to Kate's, asking for support, and she kneels down next to him.

"Il a raison, sweetheart. Tu lui manquerais trop. Barbie Kate préfère sûrement rester ici, avec toi."

Hélène looks from Castle to her and back, her little head bobbed thoughtfully. In the end, she gingerly reaches out and takes her Barbie back, but then she glances slyly at Rick from under her eyelashes and, without warning, throws her arms around his neck.

He gives a surprised laugh and hugs back, his eyes closing briefly as he brushes a kiss to the dark, shiny curls.

"Au revoir, Hélène," he says, his voice tight with emotion.

God, she loves this man and his beautiful, tender heart.

Hélène lets go and then turns to Kate, giving her the same treatment. The detective holds her close, breathing in the sweet baby smell, her hand resting on the side of the small, round tummy.

"Bye, lovely girl," she murmurs, sneaking a kiss to her cheek before she releases her.

They get their backpacks as Hélène runs back to her mother's arms, hides her face in the crook of her neck. Bénédicte murmurs soft, soothing words into her ear, and escorts them to the door.

"Thank you again," Kate says warmly. "For everything."

"My pleasure," the woman answers with a smile. "And I hope to see you again some day."

"We look forward to that," Castle answers in that confident, good-humored way of his. "In the meantime, take care of yourself, and this little lady," he adds, brushing a finger to Hélène's cheek.

She shies away, and Kate takes it as their cue. After one last goodbye, she laces her fingers with Castle's and tugs him into the street after her. He has a melancholy look on his face, one she's strangely familiar with: it's a softer version of the expression he harbors every time he hears the words _Alexis_ and _college _in the same sentence.

Kate is tempted to remind him that they've only known Hélène and her mom for a day, but she knows it wouldn't make much of a difference to her big softie of a husband. It's up to her to distract him, make him laugh.

And she'll gladly take up the job.

* * *

><p>Kate teases him all the way up to the station.<p>

He's no idiot - he knows that she's doing it mainly to improve his mood - but boy, that doesn't keep it from working. And by the time they step into the cute stone house that bears the word _Gare_ on its front, he's grinning like an idiot, seduced all over again by this amazing woman that he somehow managed to marry.

Extraordinary.

That's what she is. That's what it is - all of it.

He might not have done anything to deserve it, but hell if he doesn't fight to his very last breath to keep it. Which, uh, sounds a little more morbid than he intended.

"Wait for me here?" Kate asks as they set their backpacks down in the hall. "I'll be back in a minute with our tickets."

"Sure," Castle says, already glancing in interest at the vending machine. Okay, he's not hungry right now - they had lunch, and Nutella even more recently - so it's pure..._gourmandise_, as the French say.

Kate laughs and catches his chin between two fingers, steering his eyes away from the candy.

"Don't forget, Rick," she warns, giving him a lovely glimpse of tongue. "You don't have any money."

He groans - this is *seriously* starting to get old - and closes his fingers on her wrist, tugging her into him. "Maybe you could give me some," he suggests in a low, playful voice, before nipping at her earlobe.

He feels the flutter of her eyelids, the humming sound that vibrates in her chest, and he presses his lips to the side of her neck, wanting more of it. More of her.

Kate's fingers clench on his t-shirt and she raises on tiptoe, her own teeth scraping his jaw. He shivers.

"What are you suggesting?" she murmurs in his ear. "That I pay you for your...services?"

He barks out a laugh, surprised but delighted at the same time.

"Why, Detective Beckett. Are you sure that would be legal?"

She lets him go, but not without giving him a predatory smile that makes his insides quiver with anticipation.

"Not sure legal has anything to do with what I plan on doing to you, Castle."

And just like that, his mind is blank and she's gone.

Did he say she was extraordinary? Evil. Evil is what he meant.

Not that the two are mutually exclusive.

* * *

><p>She lets him have the seat next to the window, which surprises him. She had the window seat on the plane to France (although he didn't know France was the destination at the time) and she seemed to enjoy it so much that he promised himself he'd abandon it her on the way back as well.<p>

"You sure?" he asks one last time.

He gets a half-hearted eye roll for that one, and he finds himself inordinately pleased with it - like saying hello to an old friend.

"Okay," he mumbles obediently, taking his seat after shoving his backpack into the overhead luggage compartment. It doesn't quite fit, but eh. It's good enough.

Kate shakes her head at him, of course, and rearranges it as best she can, before dealing with her own bag. The train is starting to move when she sits down, slowly gathering speed, headed for whatever town she plans on sleeping in tonight.

"Kate?"

"Mm?"

The look she gives him - distracted, happy, that beautiful light playing in the green ocean of her eyes - leaves him floored, breathless, utterly unable to remember the question he meant to ask.

She smiles, slow, gorgeous, and slides a hand up his neck.

"What, Castle?"

It doesn't matter. He can't remember, and surely it's not worth it. Surely it can't compare to the sudden necessity he has of kissing Kate Beckett. Kate Castle.

His wife.

Her mouth is tender and laughing under his, so soft; it parts at the first nudge of his tongue, and he revels in that knowledge, tracing the round curve of her lip, lingering long enough to get her impatient.

There's nothing he loves more than this. The feeling of her hand tugging on his shirt, demanding more, pulling him into her; the hot little breaths she lets out into his mouth, the curl of her fingers at his stomach.

Oh, Kate -

"Excusez-moi, messieurs-dame. Je peux voir vos billets?"

Shit. The guy who inspects the tickets. Castle takes a deep breath and notices that the guy seems a little uncomfortable - he's looking everywhere but at them - but Kate gives a small laugh, even though her cheeks are flushed.

"Bien sûr," she says, reaching for the tickets that she slid into the pocket of the seat in front of them. "Tenez. Excusez-nous."

The man, who must be in his fifties, grins shyly, a flash of understanding crossing his face.

"Il y a pas de mal. Et vous êtes en règle," he confirms with a nod, handing back the rectangles of paper.

"Merci," Kate answers with a smile, and the man moves on to the people across the aisle. The train is far from crowded; their car is probably not even half full.

Castle likes it that way. More intimate. (Also, more chances for Kate to let him make out with her a little. Hopefully.)

Right now though, she's looking out the window, and he follows her gaze, curious to see what generates such interest in her eyes.

Oh. The countryside looks beautiful, juxtaposed fields planted with different cereals, and making for an exquisite patchwork. Everywhere he looks, it's hills and valleys, trees and crops, and there's just something peaceful and deeply satisfying about it all.

As if man and nature have, for now, found some kind of agreement. A truce.

He knows it's just an impression, of course, that French farming is probably not much greener than the American one, but still - it's nice to feel that way. However mistakenly.

A soft sound of surprise on Kate's part rouses him, makes his head swivel.

Her brow is knitted as she stares down at her hand, at her bare fingers. Her left hand.

"Castle. Where's my wedding ring?"


	18. Chapter 18

He stares dumbly, trying to think. Her wedding ring. How would he know-

"Castle, did you by any chance take it off my finger last night?"

Oh, that's what she meant. He thinks back carefully, but *she* was the only thing on his mind last night. He ran the bath, got her the Tylenol, went to ask Bénédicte for the sheets... He can't remember anything to do with her ring.

Before he's even had time to say no, though, she's already standing up in the narrow aisle and getting her backpack, setting it down on the seat, opening it with anxious hands. Too anxious.

It doesn't seem like her. He remembers her calm voice when she stood among the ashes of her apartment, with dozens of foreign hands going through her things, asking for her father's watch; he remembers how his heart broke for her then, because he knew what the watch meant, the fight she had put up to wrench her father from alcohol's insidious claws.

But he also remembers his amazement, his stunned admiration for the woman who could keep her head on straight. Who could ask where her father's watch was, without her voice even faltering.

Where is this woman now?

Kate is going through her stuff without the method, the efficiency that he's always seen her display; her gestures are hurried, wild, as she pulls out random items of clothing, food, spare shoes.

She gets out the small case where she keeps her make-up and, he remembers now, the few pieces of jewelry she's brought with her, but that he hasn't seen her wear yet. She almost rips the zipper open, pours out the case's contents on top of the mess she's made, inspects them, her mouth parted, eyes brittle with anguish.

He doesn't need to look at the jewels to know that her wedding ring isn't there; her face is telling that story all on its own.

He should comfort her, should tell her that he doesn't care, that it doesn't matter-

But the words won't leave his dumbstruck throat. He can only look at her, this version of Kate that he doesn't know, whose fingers are trembling as she presses them to her mouth.

"God, Castle, I - I don't know, I was certain..." she stops, closes her eyes, pushes her hair back.

Gathering herself.

That's more like it. She takes a deep breath, and he does too, the spell suddenly broken.

"I had it yesterday morning," she says more calmly, green eyes opening again, focused. Beautiful. "I remember playing with it at breakfast, turning it around my finger. And then -"

Her brow knits and her right hand flies to her left, an unconscious gesture it seems, her fingers rubbing at the empty spot left by the absent ring.

"What about this morning?" he asks, trying to help, to jog her memory. "Do you remember seeing it then?"

She presses her lips together, that cute little wrinkle creasing her forehead as she thinks.

"I don't remember," she says at last with an impatient jerk of her head. "I don't even remember last night. I was tired, I wasn't paying attention... Castle, I don't know. I'm sorry."

Her voice is a painful melange of frustration and despair, and when she looks at him, the disappointment in her eyes twists his heart, pulls him towards her.

"Kate."

She's worrying her lip, eyes down again, and he catches her wrist, makes her look.

"Kate."

She meets his gaze reluctantly.

"I don't care. I don't care. It's just a ring," he emphasizes with a smile, before he traps her hand between his. "Just a ring. A piece of metal." He can buy her a hundred more rings. Although it's probably not the smart thing to say right now. "I have you, Kate. It's all that matters to me."

He lifts her hand to his lips, kisses the tip of her fingers, all the while looking into her eyes, making sure that she sees. He means it. He cares nothing for her wedding ring; it's her that he wants. Her that he's always wanted.

She looks away, her lips a thin line, emotion blurring her eyes. He knows her well enough to realize that she's not very happy with herself right now, so he gives her that time - time to accept it, to let go, come to terms with it.

As far as he's concerned, she can lose every present he's ever given her, as long as he still finds her by his side in the morning.

She turns back to him after a moment, gives him a small, grudging smile.

His heart soars to see it, and he's leaning in for a kiss when the smile disappears, and her eyes widen.

"Oh," she says softly, and suddenly he's no longer holding her hand - she's using it to look into her bag. But not the main pocket, not the one that has all her stuff; one of the tiny side pockets that they tried to use for sunblock, before they realized that it would never fit in there.

A breath of relief escapes her when her fingers close on something; she yanks the ring out, looks at it closely, before she lifts trembling, joyful eyes to him.

"Here it is, Rick," she laughs, breathless, and he's at once thrilled and heartbroken.

Because he doesn't want her so upset over a ring. Not even his.

"I took it off yesterday after we got drenched in the rain, because I was afraid it would slip off my finger," she says, shaking her head at herself. "And then, I don't know, it completely slipped my mind."

She slides it back onto her finger, her thumb caressing the stone, her eyes warm as she looks at it.

Castle cannot resist; he reaches out, gets her hand and her attention back.

"Kate, seriously. It's not worth-" he hesitates, but she's looking at him now, and he might as well go on. "It's just an object. No need to make yourself miserable over it. I mean, what if you had lost it? I know you don't want to hear this, but I can buy you another one whenever I want- "

"I don't want another one, Castle," she interrupts, all fierce and stubborn Beckett. How does she do that? From relieved, breathless Kate back to steely detective, all in one second. It always stuns him. "I want mine."

He doesn't know what to say to that, but she doesn't seem to mind. She leans in to brush a kiss to his mouth, her palm warm against his jaw.

"And I have it," she says, her tone much softer. "So I'm good."

She turns back to her bag and starts to repack, careful and methodical, and he has no other choice than to let himself sink back into his seat, watching her all the while. His gut is still twisted at the memory of her shimmering green eyes, and a faint sense of unease stays with him.

_I'm good_, she said.

Well, he's not sure he believes that.

* * *

><p>Kate knows it was stupid.<p>

It was stupid to react like that, to let panic overwhelm her, and most of all, to let Castle see. But she's not used to hiding from him anymore - their trip has been all about openness and communication - and when she saw her ring was missing -

Yeah. She lost it.

Not very smart, Beckett.

It's not-

She sighs.

It's not just a ring. Whatever Castle might say. It has memories attached to it, beautiful memories that she will cherish always - the look in his eyes when she walked up the aisle, awed and overjoyed, filled to the brim, a brighter blue than she'd ever seen them; his voice, so strong and sure, as he promised to love her, and then so soft that night in her ear, as they stood alone on the dance floor.

Castle is asleep next to her; seeing as he dozed off in the plane to France, too, she thinks maybe he's one of those people who gets lulled by the regular sound of engines, and has no problem falling asleep anywhere. Although he never fades out when he's in the car with her.

She watches him for a moment, his mouth half-open, slack, his hair cutely mussed, the slightly awkward angle of his neck that looks - painful. He looks so young; she cannot help leaning in, caressing his jaw with her mouth.

Then she settles back in her seat, closes her eyes.

But it's not sleep that comes to her.

* * *

><p>"Could we take a look at those, please? Yes, the white gold ones, on the right. Thanks."<p>

Castle gives a charming smile to the stern-looking, grey-haired woman behind the counter, and she softens instantly. Kate refrains from rolling her eyes, but she gives her partner a scolding look. The price of the rings, if not extravagant, is still higher than she feels comfortable with. She told him no, and more than once.

He just doesn't listen.

The saleswoman – Harriet, her nametag says – takes the wedding bands out of the display case, handling them with exaggerated care. Okay, Kate thinks, we get it. They're expensive. But seriously, it's not like we're going to break them.

Rick beams and reaches for the smaller ring, examining it with obvious interest. The dark-haired detective averts her gaze, suddenly all too aware that the rings are gorgeous, and that if she wants to say no, she had better not take a closer look at them.

Why does Castle have such good taste, anyway?

Lanie would kill her if she could hear her. And so would most women, probably. But-

It's harder to refuse nice gifts – _really_ nice gifts – and Kate just, *can't* take them. She won't be a kept woman. She won't. And she doesn't want Castle to think that he can buy her with presents. She's got him: it's more than enough.

Even if she hasn't told him in so many words.

"Try it on," Rick nudges, rousing her from her thoughts.

Oh, no. Before she can stop him, he's slipping the ring on her finger, and her objections die on her lips. Shit. The gesture, no matter how hard she fights the reaction, sends a shiver running down her spine.

Damn it, Rick, she swears inwardly; the laughing look in his blue eyes tells her he knows exactly what he's doing.

A manipulative bastard, that's what he is.

She swallows the untimely emotion, makes the mistake of looking down at her hand, and sinks her teeth into her lower lip. Then she berates herself. She's not such a girl that she cannot say no to a ring, is she? It's only jewellery, after all. But that's exactly the problem: the ring, with its single diamond and its elegant simplicity, appeals to the rational part of her, not to her girly side. She can wear it at work; it's inconspicuous, thin enough that it won't tear at the plastic gloves they use at crime scenes, and-

It doesn't hurt that it's beautiful, either.

_No._

Kate releases the breath she's been holding as discreetly as she can, takes the ring off. It comes easily, smooth and cool against her skin, as if trying to say, _Look how perfect a fit I am!_ She avoids Castle's eyes, meets the saleswoman's instead. All trace of softness has left the narrow face. Big surprise there.

"Something wrong?" Harriet asks, politely if not kindly.

"No," the detective answers with a fake smile (she can do those pretty well, too). "It's really beautiful."

She turns to Castle, hoping the woman will give them some privacy. No such luck.

Fine, then.

"It's too much money, Rick," she says decidedly, her voice low but firm.

He opens his mouth to protest and Kate wants to close her eyes. They're going to fight in the store, aren't they? She sees an endless landscape of petty arguments opening right in front of her, location and flowers and food and clothes, and she tries to think fast, to find a way out of this.

Castle is saying, "That's what money is for, Kate; so I can give you what you deserve, what you wouldn't buy otherwise," and she wonders fugitively if this is what he said to his ex-wives, or if Meredith and Gina always accepted money and gifts without putting up any resistance.

Uh. The latter, probably.

"I'll tell you what, Castle," she interrupts, feeling a sudden flash of inspiration. Usually she would give it more thought, test and prod until she was certain, but she really doesn't want to hear him complain about her not wanting his money. "We'll split it. I let you pay for the wedding – all of it, if you promise to be reasonable – and I'll pay for the honeymoon."

Strangely enough, once she's voiced it, the idea seems even more appealing. Instead of seeing everything that's wrong with it, instead of regretting her words, Kate feels a swell of excitement in her belly, twirling and dancing.

It's not like her to get carried away, but this-

A sea of possibility shimmers before her, places she wants to take him, memories she wants to share. It's dizzying.

She said this off the top of her head, but now she wants him to say yes, bad enough to scare her. Castle's eyes are intent on her, thoughtful but definitely interested. He's a bit surprised too, she can tell.

She watches the idea make its way in his brain, watches him struggle with it. She knows he wants to give her a dream wedding (something she finds equal parts sweet and infuriating) but he obviously had plans to whisk her away as well.

He always has a hard time choosing – he's the spoilt little boy who walks out of the store with two video games because he couldn't pick one.

But not this time.

"I get to pay for _everything_?" Rick asks slowly. "The whole wedding's on me?"

The independent part of Kate rebels at the very notion, but there's no reason he should be the only one making an effort. She swallows, thinks of the honeymoon and everything it can mean if she does things right.

"Yeah. But remember – nothing too extravagant," she warns, nervous at once.

He smiles, a sincere, tender smile without traces of irony or arrogance, and he just says, "I do know whom I'm marrying."

Ugh. She hates when he does that. Turns her knees to jelly.

Castle extends a hand, and she shoots him a surprised look.

"Do we have a deal, detective?" he asks, wiggling his eyebrow.

She smirks, shakes without a moment's hesitation. "Yeah, Castle. Deal."

And then he uses his hold on her to pull her into him, steal a kiss. His teeth nibble at her bottom lip, and he soothes the spot with his tongue; she can't do anything but part her lips for him, let her tongue brush against his, warm and wet.

Kate breaks the contact, steps away, and arches a pointed eyebrow.

_In the middle of the damn store, Rick_?

He simply grins in response. Then, turning to the saleswoman (who's trying, and failing, to look like she hasn't been listening to their whole conversation), he says confidently, "We'll take the wedding bands."

Beckett takes a deep breath. _Honeymoon,_ she reminds herself. _Honeymoon._


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay - life and my job have conspired to keep me away from this story, and from answering as many of your reviews as I would have liked. But thank you all, for reading, for letting me know what you think. You're awesome. And as always, special thanks to chezchuckles. She knows why.

* * *

><p>The train comes to a stop and the sudden stillness wakes Castle, makes him blink against the light of the descending sun. Orange, pale pink, light blue: the sky has layers, but his mind is still too foggy for him to really be charmed.<p>

The quiver of a silent laugh at his shoulder claims his attention, his heart swelling with pleasure when he finds green eyes regarding him with amusement, the beautiful curve of a smile on her face.

"Kate. Hi."

"Hey, sleepyhead."

Her voice is so gentle, carefree; he wants to bathe in it, worship every inflection, adore her mouth with his.

"Watching me sleep?" he asks with an arch of his eyebrow, interested in a chance at getting back at her for all the times she called him creepy.

Her smile widens.

"No, Castle, just trying to watch the scenery. You happen to be in the way."

Hey. Wait. He asked her - he *asked* her if she wanted the window seat, at least twice-

The moment he parts his lips to express his indignation, though, her palm is on his cheek and her mouth is on his, open and tender, caressing.

He hums into the kiss, eager to forgive if it means the moist, heated sweep of her tongue against his, her fingers curling at his ear, brushing the sensitive patch of skin they find there.

"Hmm, Kate," he murmurs, pleasantly dazed, when she lets go. The train is still not moving, and he opens an eye to peer at her. "We there yet?"

She smiles, shakes her head. "No. But it's the next stop, so I think it shouldn't be long now."

He yawns, rubs a hand against his eyes. Crazy how sleepy these trains and planes make him. He's afraid he's rather poor company.

"Think you can stay awake until then?" Kate teases, fingers curling around his upper arm and squeezing.

"Careful what you wish for," he says in a dark voice, prying her hand from his bicep and closing his teeth on a slim finger.

He loves the flicker of arousal in her eyes, the way her lips part in expectation-

But he loves to surprise her even more.

Instead of applying his tongue to the lovely digit, he makes a growling sound deep in his throat and pretends to bite at the soft skin; Kate jumps back with a gasp, quickly withdraws her hand with a breathless laugh.

Ah, sexy.

"What was that, Castle?" She's going for a scold, but the amusement in her voice makes it rather difficult to believe. "Don't be a child," she tells him anyway, with a pointed look.

"I'm not," he answers mindlessly, stunned by her - the flash of teeth, mouth parted wide, the heat battling tenderness in her green eyes. "But you want one."

* * *

><p>Kate sucks in a breath, knowing that the shock is rippling all over her face, in her wide eyes; she wants to stop it, wants him to not see - <em>don't look, Castle<em> - but she can't. And he does.

He does look.

He's going to be disappointed. He's going to see that she's not ready, he's going to think-

Or maybe not?

To be honest, his face looks a lot like she feels in this moment. Stunned awareness of his own words, a tinge of disbelief; there isn't room for anything else. Thank god.

She's not sure she can take anything else.

"Kate-"

She should speak. She should say something. He needs her to say - say what, exactly?

She can't find her words.

"I."

At least he's having as much trouble with this as she is.

"Obviously, that was-"

She sees him hesitate, something like terror flaring in his eyes. Terror? No no no-

"My filter was off," he finishes weakly. "Sleep, and - I can't be held accountable for-"

She doesn't let him finish that sentence. Her body rushes forward, meets him in the way her words can't, awkward angles and jutting bones, the curve of her arms around his neck, chests crashing together.

Her teeth at his ear.

"Shut the hell up," she murmurs roughly, before he can get over his shock and start again with this nonsense.

Of course he can be held accountable. In fact, he'd better goddamn mean it-

"Kate," he breathes against her cheek, into her hair. Hope and amazement, and question.

She only squeezes tighter, the words gone again - they've abandoned her, left her deserted on the beach.

So she waits for the next wave.

And when it comes-

"Someday," she declares to his temple, the shell of his ear. The promise makes her voice too small, strangled in her throat; it won't do at all. "Someday, Rick," she repeats, stronger, more fervent, and she delights in the shiver that shakes his broad shoulders.

"I promise."

She kisses earlobe, jaw, neck, feels his hands splaying at the small of her back. Not possessive, not demanding. Just holding her there.

She presses her mouth to the hollow of his throat, the place she loves, the so-soft skin.

"And you're right," she whispers, her voice so low; he can't possibly hear her - must feel her, feel the ripple of her exhales across the sensitive spot of his neck.

There's something deeply pleasing to that thought, something that enchants her, makes the blood sing in her veins. But she doesn't let it distract her.

She has one more thing to say.

"I do want it," she acknowledges, her lips to his collarbone.

She feels him sag against her, a deep breath - relief? contentment maybe? - leaving his lungs as he traps her in his arms, drags her down with him, closer. Always closer.

Kate rests her forehead to the crook of his neck, pleased with herself, pleased with him, peaceful.

She could stay this way. Could stay this way for-

A long time.

"Prochain arrêt: Lavaur," the recorded voice announces, a woman's voice, disembodied, too smooth.

Laughter trembles in Kate's chest; Castle moans in disagreement, his lips so close, a breath away from her ear.

"Looks like we're there, Rick," she observes after a few seconds, when he doesn't move. "You might have to let go of me."

"No," she hears, the sound muffled as he buries his face into her shirt. "Not-uh, Kate Beckett. I'm not letting go of you."

And yes, it's silly - yes, he's being a child - but that doesn't keep the grin off her face.

* * *

><p>The train station isn't in the town center. Kate can't remember if she knew that; she did print a map, but it's nowhere near detailed enough. Damn.<p>

"It's fine," Castle tells her, fingers wrapping around her wrist. "Look, here's a sign for the town center. We can just follow that. How big is this town, anyway?"

Hmm. Not very.

He has a point.

She folds back her paper, slides it into her pocket, and laces her fingers with his. His face is happy, his blue eyes bright; just looking at him makes the frustration inside her vanish.

She leans in to brush her mouth to his, lingering when his lips part, chase hers.

It's only five thirty, the sun is still warm on her skin, the light breeze charged with the scent of trees and flowers. What does she care if they have to walk twenty minutes to the city center?

"Okay, Rick," she says as she rocks back on her heels. Her calf muscle protests sharply, making her wince; her husband's hand immediately comes up to her elbow to steady her, gentle but assured.

Annoying.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," she asserts, shrugging him off and taking a few steps. "See? Just a little cramped from the train. Jeez, Castle. Relax."

He presses his lips together, but wisely refrains from any comment. In that beat of silence, she remembers last night, the comfort of his body around hers, and feels a twinge of guilt that she quickly stifles.

She's just tired. Her body's a little fragile still, despite the amount of sleep she got; that's only normal. No one heals in a day. No matter how hard they might wish to. Kate understands that he's worried; it's just not a reason to coddle her.

"Come on," she says, her voice softer, her hand finding his. "Let's go."

She's grateful for the smile he gives her, the objections he keeps to himself.

His fingers squeeze hers once, light, as if telling her to lead the way. And she does, the familiar warmth spreading through her chest, trickling down to her toes.

Partners.

* * *

><p>She can tell him she's fine as many times as she wants, that doesn't make him believe it.<p>

Castle keeps sneaking stubborn little glances at her as they walk up the street, checking for signs of a relapse, reddened eyes maybe, or simple clues as to her actual degree of tiredness.

She does look a little pale, under the tan that she's gotten from spending their days in the sun; unfortunately, he can't think of a way to brush his fingers or lips to her forehead without her immediately figuring out his intentions.

And she's made it clear that she doesn't want to be taken care of.

Although last night, really, she wasn't saying no to any of it. If what he needs is to exhaust her thoroughly enough that she'll let him nurse her... He finds himself fighting a grin.

He can think of a couple ways to do exactly that.

Kate leads them through the main avenue, a wide, curved street lined with tall trees - oaks, he believes - that look old. More than old. Venerable.

That's a nice word; he rolls the syllables in his mouth, tasting them, like reconnecting with an old friend. He likes this word. Makes him think of Star Wars and Master Yoda. Venerable. He needs to ask Kate if it exists in French.

Turning to her, he sees that she's busy talking to an older woman - probably asking for directions to the tourist office. She's wearing a dress today, a very unKate-like dress that he stared at for a long time when she stood up from the bed this morning. Turquoise flowers on brown silk, a lovely v-neck that only shows a hint of her breasts; but the fabric presses to every curve like a tender hand, denying the girlish, modest look of the dress.

And her hair, her dark, gorgeous hair spills over her shoulders, completely undoes that first impression of a "good little girl" outfit.

Just looking at her makes his head spin.

Castle shoves his hands in his pockets, forces himself to avert his eyes and examine his surroundings instead.

The avenue is arranged in a curious way: a wide pedestrian path in the middle, framed by two one-way roads that allow the cars to go through. The oaks spread their long branches over their heads, a dome of leaves that shield them from the sun, the space cool, almost intimate.

The whole setting is rather romantic, in fact: tables belonging to various cafés scattered along the avenue, a few customers enjoying an early drink, the light slowly fading, changing from mid-afternoon to early evening.

It's beautiful.

Makes him wish he were a painter. He loves playing with words, of course, using them to depict a certain atmosphere, capture the taste of a particular moment - but sometimes, he would like to do the same with brushes and colors, instead of his laptop's keyboard.

But he sucks at it. He's helpless. Even his daughter, who has far more patience and application than he does, is not much of a great artist; the failure must run in the blood, he tells himself in consolation.

"Castle?"

He snaps out of his reverie, turns to his wife.

"The tourist office is this way," she indicates with a faint smile, nodding to some place at his back. "Just a few minutes' walk, apparently."

The tourist office happens to be located on the ground floor of a small, round tower (seriously, how cool is that?); Castle lingers outside to try and decipher the sign that sums up the place's history, letting Kate go in for information.

When he finally finishes reading and walks inside, he can immediately tell that something's wrong. Kate has this stubborn expression on her face as she argues with the man behind the desk, a dark-skinned guy who looks bored, not even apologetic.

"Ecoutez, madame, je sais que le site internet mentionne plusieurs campings, mais aucun d'entre eux n'est à Lavaur, ok? Je suis désolé si il y a eu confusion, mais je vais pas vous l'inventer, votre camping. Tout ce que je peux faire, c'est vous donner la liste des hébergements intra-muros."

Castle's brow knits as he concentrates on the man's words, his task made somewhat more difficult by the sheer speed of his speech, and the lilting southern accent. He got a lot of the first part - also because he remembers Kate saying they were supposed to camp tonight - but the rest is completely lost on him.

There's no camping in Lavaur, and - what?

He eases next to Kate, who's chewing her lip and obviously containing her frustration.

"What did he say?" he asks in a low voice.

She doesn't answer, giving him the small shake of her head that means _not now_ (he's seen it enough times to be completely familiar with it).

"D'accord," she tells the man at last. "Donnez-moi la liste."

A list? A list of what?

The employee takes his sweet time, lazily opening and closing a few drawers before he gets a paper out at last.

"Voilà," he says with satisfaction, briefly checking the content and then holding it out for Kate.

She snatches it, utters an ironic _thank you_, and walks out, pushing Castle in front of her. He cooperates, if only because he wants pretty badly to know what's going on.

Wants to know why her mouth is pressed into a thin line, why the green of her eyes is troubled with anger and disappointment.

"Kate?"

She doesn't stop when they're outside, though - keeps walking briskly into the street they came through, her shoulders so tense, her hand a fist around the brochure provided by the guy.

He almost has to run to keep up with her. And run he does, placing himself in front of her to block her way. He wants, at least, to know they're going.

"Kate."

She refuses to look at him, puts the thick frame of her eyelashes between him and her emotions; but her tight lips tell him enough, just like the small tremor at the corner of her mouth.

She has to be pretty damn tired, to let herself get this worked up over... He doesn't know what, actually.

He moves his hand from her upper arm to her cheek, curls his fingers around it, nudges the soft hairs behind her ear.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" he asks quietly, his voice nothing but gentle. He knows by experience that she responds better to this than to brute force, especially when she's in an emotionally fragile place.

Trying to force her into things - that's never led him anywhere good.

"Kate. Love."

She lets out a shaky sigh, shuts her eyes for a second before she finally looks into his eyes.

"I'm an idiot, is what's going on," she tells him between clenched teeth, and the frustration in her voice makes his heart hurt.

He can't help himself. He draws her into the circle of his arms, right there in the middle of the street, and cradles her to his chest. Kate doesn't even resist; she simply rests her forehead to his jaw.

"Come on, it can't be that bad," he says (it can't, right? Even though he really has no idea). "And don't call my wife an idiot," he warns, getting a light chuckle from her.

Eh. Better than nothing.

"It's just. I thought they had camping site, because that's what their website seemed to say, but turns out all the campgrounds are a little ways out of town. If not in completely different villages. So our only solution-"

"-is to find another place to sleep here," Castle finishes for her.

He doesn't see what's so terrible with that; his voice must hold some of his incomprehension, because Kate sighs and detaches herself from him. He won't let her go far though; he keeps his hands on her waist, keeps her close.

She'll only isolate herself, if he lets her.

"Yeah, I'm being silly, Castle. Thanks for pointing it out so eloquently," she says with a rather pale attempt at a smile.

"I'm not pointing out anything," he replies patiently. "But don't you think maybe, just maybe, you're overreacting a little, because you're still tired and sick?"

She presses her mouth together, considers him.

"I - guess so," she says in the end, defeated. "I just feel like - like I'm doing this all wrong, Rick. I mean, what kind of a wife am I, if I can't even figure out where we're going to sleep?"

The laugh surprises him, stumbles out of his lips before he can help it; it's probably not the best thing to do, not when she's baring her soul to him. She gives him a look of reproach, and he immediately wants to take the sound back.

Seeing as he can't, he settles for the next best thing. Tug her into him, kiss the hurt off her beautiful lips. The hurt and the reluctance.

He threads his fingers through the soft, thick mass of her hair, cups her skull to angle her mouth just right, his tongue pleading both for forgiveness and acceptance. Kate seems to grant him both, kissing him back, opening herself to him; for a dizzying moment she's the only thing in his world, her scent and her taste, the warmth of her body against his.

His heart thuds with his love for her, the strength of it.

*Their* love.

And then, when they break apart and he tries to catch his breath, he remembers her words and can't help a smile.

"So, you're a bad wife, uh?"

He's enchanted by the light that sparks in her green eyes, the narrowed look she gives him, vulnerability all gone.

"Shut up, Castle," she says, but the corner of her mouth betrays her smile.

"No, because I mean, if you've been bad, then I guess you ought to make up for it. Or at least try. That's what *I* would do."

She parts her lips to answer, seems to think better of it, stepping in his space instead. Her fingers slide under the belt of his shorts, brushing his skin; he cannot control his shudder.

"And how exactly would you..._make up for it_, Rick?" she murmurs as she leans into him, her breath fanning his jaw, tantalizing.

Ah. Uh.

Well, he has an idea-

And then she scrapes her teeth to his chin, licks at it, and his eyelids flutter shut, his thought process halted. His fingers squeeze her side responsively, but she laughs and steps away, out of his reach. Damn.

"Have I made up for it yet?" she teases, quirking an eyebrow.

He grins, wants to say _Almost, but not quite_; she cuts him off with a kiss, her smiling mouth open against his.

When she withdraws, he has the brochure from the tourist office in his hand.

"You get to choose where we'll sleep tonight, Castle," she says when he lifts surprised eyes to her. "Don't make me regret it."

Oh, he won't.


	20. Chapter 20

The choices for accommodation are not exactly plentiful: there are only a couple of options in the town center, the rest being country houses (or _castles_, as Rick points out gleefully) that they would need a car in order to get to.

Kate honestly doesn't care where they sleep - anything is going to be more expensive that the camping she had planned for, anyway - but she's pleased that Castle doesn't immediately go for the fancy-looking hotels.

No, he studies the brochure attentively, sneaking little looks at her all the while, before he finally settles for another _chambre d'hôte._

Domaine de la Buissardière, she reads when he shows her the pamphlet. The description is short but seems good, and she smiles when she realizes what feature must have appealed to Castle.

"Each room is named after a French writer?"

He grins at her. "How cool is that?"

"I guess the swimming pool doesn't hurt either," she murmurs teasingly as she reads the last of the description.

Of course, the prices aren't indicated, but it's the same with all the accommodations in the brochure anyway. And they have to sleep somewhere. And she doesn't want Castle to think they can't afford it.

So Domaine de la Buissardière it is.

* * *

><p>As it turns out, they're lucky: someone just cancelled their reservation about an hour ago, and so the room "George Sand" is available for the night. Exactly what they're looking for.<p>

"You're English, right?" the young man at the desk asks them confidently as he takes a key out of a drawer, after he's had them fill in a form. "I can always tell. We have quite a lot of English people here in the south - they love it, looks like. Lots of old castles that were abandoned or in a terrible state got bought back from English people, and renovated. Like this one-"

He keeps talking as he leads them down the corridor, to their room, but Kate has stopped listening. She's amused by the way Europeans lump together anyone who speaks English into the general term 'English' - no matter what country they're from.

She slides her fingers against Rick's, palms brushing together, and she gives him a smile when he turns his eyes to her.

She's glad to be here. With him.

His whole face is soft, tender, as he leans in to brush his lips to her cheek. She closes her eyes for a second, wishes they were alone-

But they're not.

"And here is your room," the guy says with a flash of white teeth, dazzling against his dark skin. He opens the door, moves to the side to let them in. "I'm Pierre, by the way. Here, I'll give you the key, let you settle in - if you need anything, please come up to the desk, and I'll help you in any way I can."

"Thanks," Castle says warmly. "We will." And he closes the door on too-helpful Pierre.

Kate presses a hand to her mouth, unwilling to laugh while the young man might still be outside the door. Of course, Rick notices, wiggles an eyebrow at her. "Likes to talk, doesn't he?"

"Uh-huh," she agrees, biting her lip but grinning anyway.

Her husband grins back, blue eyes bright and happy, before he turns to set his backpack down, look at the room.

"Ooh, old-fashioned. I like it," he says, sitting on the bed and bouncing a few times - probably his way to test the mattress.

The room *is* pretty old-fashioned. From the colors - red and beige - to the canopy bed, the large wooden wardrobe; even the chairs, the table look like something out of the nineteenth century. The TV that faces the bed is not very modern, but it still manages to look... anachronistic in this setting.

Kate isn't a big fan of the traditional look, but she can see why Castle loves it, of course. Same reason why he likes role-playing, why he bought the Old Haunt on a whim (or was it? A whim? Sometimes she wonders).

He loves the story. And history too, by extension. So a place that tells a story, that speaks of history just through exposed beams, or old-looking furniture?

He's sold. She can see the interest sparkling in his eyes, the hand he runs over the dark wood of the bed head and the faded, oval painting that adorns it.

And she has to admit it, she can never remain indifferent to his child-like joy.

So she gets the backpack off her shoulders, kicks off her shoes, and joins Castle diagonally on the bed, stretching her body against his. He winds an arm around her neck, brushes his smile to her forehead.

"Hey there."

"Hey."

She nuzzles his neck, breathes in his smell, all of her relaxing at the gentle contact. He's made her like this. She's not a cuddler; she doesn't like to be held, to be petted. *Didn't* like?

Well, true, when she was a little girl (and even a teenager) she liked to nestle against her mom on the couch, but that was-

A lifetime ago.

Castle does that for her. He excavates the remains of the child she once was, and breathes life back into her, so easily, when she believed - believed for so long - that the person she was before her mother's murder was dead too, dead and buried. Irretrievable.

Her throat tightens to think of it.

Kate lifts herself onto her forearm, just enough to curl her other hand around his cheek, turn his face into her kiss. She lets her lips thank him, her tongue stroke his in gratitude, and love, love - this rich, plentiful love he fills her with, too good, too much, until she can do nothing but let it pour out again.

He hums and kisses her back, his leisurely pace telling her he gets it - doesn't he always? - telling her he knows exactly what she feels, and that he feels the same.

When their lips part she rests her nose to his cheek, needing the closeness, needing him.

"Love you, Kate," he breathes, his voice gruff, his fingers caressing the line of her neck.

She closes her eyes in acquiescence.

Yes. That.

* * *

><p>When Castle comes out of the bathroom, fresh from his shower, hair still wet, he finds Kate sound asleep on the bed.<p>

She has her head on a pillow and her feet on the opposite corner, her long, lithe body stretched over the space instead of her usual curl; one of her hands is tucked under her cheek, her elbow at an angle that will probably hurt when she wakes.

But he won't wake her. She looks like she needs the sleep.

He bends to brush a kiss to her forehead; she hums something indistinct, her lips curving, almost a smile.

Her skin feels hot, but he cannot determine if the fever's back, or if it's just a normal consequence of spending the day outside in the sun. He bobs his head, considers her.

If she's still sick, she should probably take something stronger than Tylenol. Like antibiotics. Ideally, he would get her to a clinic, but he's not even sure there's one here - the town is small - and he's even less certain that she would agree to go at all.

He could make her, but well. That's not exactly how he'd like to spend his honeymoon.

The drugstore is a good compromise. Drugs should help; if they don't, then he'll have a good argument to take her to a clinic. But hopefully they will.

It's only six right now - shops should still be open, right? From what he's seen, the usual closing time here is around seven. Maybe six thirty. Eh. It's worth a try. He saw a drugstore on the way here, very close, in fact; no more than a five-minute walk.

But.

He will need money.

Ah.

He purses his lips, once again absorbing himself in the fruitless endeavor that is trying to predict Kate Beckett's reactions. Technically.

No. She's going to hate this.

At the same time... When he was planning their wedding, arranging for everything - _paying _for everything - he never forced her to use his money. She kept going to the precinct, buying lunch for her and the guys, sometimes going out with Lanie - all on her own dime.

So, while he understands that paying for the honeymoon includes paying for food and accommodation (he won't begrudge her that), it *could* be argued that drugs are not, after all, a part of their honeymoon.

They're just a way to cope with a - an unexpected situation.

There.

It sounds convincing enough to him.

Castle tears a piece of paper from the notebook he carries in his bag (a poor replacement for his laptop, that was deemed too heavy) and writes her a short note that he leaves on the bed next to her, before he goes to his backpack, takes his credit card out of a small inside pocket.

She's not going to like this. But he also thinks she's rational enough to understand why he took the card in the first place. Just a security measure; just in case.

Yes, she will see that. And if she doesn't-

He'll make her see.

* * *

><p>He has to wait in line a good fifteen minutes at the drugstore, and when it's finally his turn, he's on the balls of his feet with frustration. He's lucky though; the young woman who attends him is good-humored and patient, despite her tired eyes, and she listens attentively to his uncertain French.<p>

As it turns out, she speaks a little English herself, and between them they manage to agree on Kate's symptoms. Which are, basically, a fever, and seeing as they got drenched in the rain that day.

Could be bronchitis, but it could also just be a cold. Or strep throat. Damn. He should have checked her throat. But the means to do that without Kate noticing?

The woman - Rose - gives him a kind smile, and tells him not to worry, that she'll get him the appropriate medicine. He tries to relax as she disappears into the back of the shop, leans against the counter and checks his watch.

Kate's probably awake by now. He can't decide if she'll be pissed off, or think it's sweet, or something else. Kate. Fascinating, unpredictable Kate.

A reluctant smile stretches his lips just as the young woman comes back, a couple different boxes in her hands. She sets them on the counter, lifts her warm brown eyes to him.

"Donc. Ca," she says, pointing to the first box, "c'est pour la bronchite. Ca traite à la fois la toux et la fièvre, et c'est très efficace."

He nods dumbly, only getting the first part, about it being a treatment for bronchitis (but that's really all he needs).

"A," she goes on, showing him another box, "c'est pour l'angine." (It took him long enough to understand that angine is strep throat, and he's rather proud of himself for that one.) "Pareil, c'est ce qu'on a de mieux, et c'est un générique, donc c'est moins cher. Less, uh, expensive," she adds, probably noticing the confusion on his face.

Less expensive? He doesn't care about the price. He just wants to make sure Kate's okay. She must read his doubt, because she quickly says, "It's good. Don't worry."

Hmm.

"Et, pour le rhume - the cold? J'ai ça," she says, taking the last box in her hand. "Mais je ne sais pas, je ne suis pas sûre que ce soit très utile pour vous, si vous avez déjà du paracétamol?"

She seriously needs to slow down. He only gets a word out of three. The lilt of the southern accent isn't helping either.

"Advil?" she translates tentatively.

"Oh. Yeah. I have Tylenol."

"Yes. So. Maybe you don't - have need of it?"

Cute. It reminds him of Kate's lovely Russian accent, though, and really, he doesn't need that.

"I'll take them all," he says with a smile. "Just to be on the safe side. Je prends tout," he translates, getting his credit card out of his pocket.

Rose seems on the verge of objecting, but she gets a pointed look from one of her colleagues, and nods silently. "Ok."

"Merci beaucoup pour votre aide," he tells her after he's shoved his card back into his pocket, taking the bag that she hands him. She gives him a small, but sincere smile, and says, "Je vous en prie."

In different times, he would mull over Rose on his way back, try to write her story, make up the reason for those tired eyes. But the only woman on his mind is Kate, and he quickens his pace, impatient to get back to her. Get back to his wife.

* * *

><p>Surprisingly enough, Kate is still asleep when he tiptoes back into the bedroom. She's switched positions, is now curled up on the opposite side with her back to him, but her absence of reaction is telling.<p>

The woman who never takes naps has been asleep for over an hour. Wow.

She definitely *is* sick.

He skirts the bed, sets the bag from the drugstore on a chest of drawers, and crouches down in front of Kate.

She's deep into REM sleep, eyes moving behind her lids, her brow knit against what must be a rather unpleasant dream. He runs his index finger across her cheek, the skin so soft, and leans in to touch his lips to hers. He should probably wake her, if he wants her to sleep tonight - but there's no reason he can't do it nicely.

The fairy tale way.

He smiles against her mouth, feels the faint sigh that she lets out, the imperceptible movement she makes to scoot closer. "Kate," he murmurs adoringly, his hand wandering to the dark waves of her hair, following the entrancing pattern, whorls and curls.

She hums and then breathes out, a tiny puff of hair that tickles his cheek, hot and light, lovely.

"Kate," he says again, going back to her mouth, gently pressing into it, reveling in the welcoming warmth. Her lips are a little dry, so he traces them with the tip of his tongue, shares the moisture; he's always been a generous guy.

Her mouth opens under his, something like a moan vibrating in her throat; he steals a taste of her, rocks back to find her eyes still closed, but a hint of color to her cheeks. "Kate," he pleads, wanting her awake, alive against him.

Her eyelids slide back then, revealing a dark, hypnotizing shade of green; before he can catch his breath, ease the fist in his chest, her hand has sneaked to the back of his neck and pulled him back to her, irresistible.

His chest crashes into the bed because he doesn't have the presence of mind to unfold his legs, get on the bed with her; he humphs into her mouth, feels the nip of her teeth, and she laughs, breaking the kiss only to command breathlessly, "Up, Castle. I want you here with me."

Out of breath, of rational thought, he does what she says.

This is not what he was planning on, on the way back from the drugstore-

-but it's much better.


	21. Chapter 21

"I must say," Castle lets out with a contented sigh, "this is quite a satisfying bed. Firm mattress, pretty nice sheets. On the whole, I'm quite happy with it."

Kate huffs a laugh against his chest, enjoying the way his skin ripples with her breath, the play of muscle under her fingers. He's resting flat on his back, and she's curled around him, a leg thrown over his, an arm gathered over his ribs - her cheek pressed to his heart.

"Oh yeah?" she says, and even though she meant it light, meant it teasing, she can tell her voice is still rough, still heavy, a little hazy with pleasure.

His fingertips dance over the line of her cheekbone, venture into the curls draped over her ear; her eyes slide shut, a hum vibrating in her throat.

"Got something against the bed, Kate?"

She can tell, just from his tone, that he's grinning.

"Hmm, no," she answers after a shivering pause due to his wandering hand. "I just think maybe it's not the only thing you should be happy with."

She punctuates her words with a a squeeze of her fingers at his side and he squirms, laughing.

"Oh, no? What else?"

She smiles, knowing he can feel it, feel the curve of her lips into his skin.

"Mm, I don't know. Your wife, for example."

His arm tightens around her, a cord of heat at her ribs, the pressure delicious, welcome.

"My wife. But my wife's not a thing," he objects, and she laughs, the sound round and joyful in her mouth, surprising her even now, when she's married to him, when she's had years to get used to his humor. His determination to make her smile.

"Good answer," she approves, teasing. "Maybe you should get rewarded for it."

"Hmm. And what might that reward be?"

She laughs again, the tip of her tongue against her bottom lip.

"I don't know, Castle. What would you like?"

Instead of giving her words, he shows her, winding both hands around her neck and turning her face up to him. But his lips are warm and soft, the caress of his tongue too gentle; she scrapes it with her teeth, hungry for more, the liquid fire of arousal scorching her veins again.

She arches against him, moaning when the smooth, taut muscles of her abdomen encounter his hipbone, but he seems intent on frustrating her; he draws back and keeps his touch light, his hands gentling her, soft brushes to her collarbone, her arms, her ribs.

She doesn't want tender, she wants-

"I'd like an honest answer," he murmurs to her chin, her jaw, and his hot exhales make it almost impossible for her to process his words. Damn it, Castle.

He moves away, though, giving her space to breathe, space to think. After a second or two, she knits her eyebrows. An honest answer?

"How are you feeling?" he asks, blue eyes dark and serious, making her want to kiss him again. But she bites her lip and rolls onto her back, lets out a reluctant chuckle.

"Only you," she sighs. "Only you can ruin such a nice moment by asking about my health."

"And I only ruin it because I have complete faith in our ability to recreate such a moment."

She laughs, completely against her will, then stretches in the sheets before she curls up on her side, looks back at him.

"I'm fine, Rick."

And she is, truly. Yes, she's still tired. Yes, she has a slight headache, but it's nothing that time won't heal. Time and her husband.

"You sure?" he says, a hint of hesitation in his voice. "Because I - I have drugs you could take, if you're not."

Drugs?

Kate lifts her head from the pillow, rests the weight of her upper body on her forearm.

"What do you mean? You know I took some Tylenol in the train. You don't have anything else, do you?"

More hesitation. Uh-oh. That can't be good. She watches him press his lips together, before he meets her eyes squarely.

"I went out and bought drugs while you were asleep, Kate."

He wha-?

She pushes herself upright, in a sitting position, and the way her head swims tells her she might not be as okay as she thought. She closes her eyes, just a second; she can almost feel Castle's concern, crashing over her like a wave.

"Kate-"

She puts a hand up, stopping him, and forces her eyes open again. Forces her brain to work.

"You bought drugs - how long was I asleep for?"

"Over an hour, I guess? You were asleep when I got out of the shower, and considering the time I had to wait at the drugstore..."

Oh. Over an hour. Okay.

It felt like - like a few minutes.

But anyway. Back to the main issue here.

"Where did you find the money, Castle?" She looks at him with raised eyebrows, hopes with all her heart that he'll say he went through her things and found her wallet. He hesitates again, longer this time, and hope trembles, flickers, dies in her chest.

"I used my credit card," he admits in a soft breath, and the disappointment hits her so hard that she has to move, has to step back, to avert her eyes and swing her legs out of bed.

She gathers her underwear and slides it back on, moves off the bed, taking a deep breath.

"Kate."

It's so unfair, so unfair, how he can get to her with just her name.

There's no denying he does, though, so she clenches her teeth and swallows her pride, and turns back to him.

His blue eyes are earnest and pleading, the tan skin of his chest contrasting nicely with the white sheets, his muscles apparent with the way he's propping himself on his arms. She hates herself for noticing.

"Will you please listen to me?" he asks quietly.

As if she could ever refuse him.

When's the last time she said no, uh?

She chews on her lip, sits back on the bed. She draws her knees up to her chest, her feet curling against the softness of the sheets, but stays on her side, away from him.

She rests her cheek to her top of her knees, does it so that she's looking at him.

"I'm listening," she says.

* * *

><p>When she looks at him like that, all dark eyes and lashes, his words die in his throat. He has to make a conscious effort to gather them again, put them in order, make sure they're the right ones.<p>

"I just-"

Ugh. Why does it have to be so hard?

He runs his hands through his hair, trails them down his face, sighs.

In front of him, Kate waits patiently, watching.

To say he's grateful for that would be the understatement of the century.

"I took the card as an emergency measure, Kate," he says, the words finally rolling off his tongue. "In case something happened to one of us, something bad; in case, I don't know, we got robbed. This is a foreign country, and I thought - better to have some sort of safety. That's all there is to it, I swear."

She absorbs that, her eyes not leaving his.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks at last.

He shifts on the bed, perplexed by the question. Why didn't he? There's no valid answer to that. Except, he thought she wouldn't like it, and in both his previous marriages, he's gotten used to ducking every fight he could; it's hard breaking the habit.

But she's worth it.

"I - thought you wouldn't like it," he admits. "And I hoped I wouldn't have to use it."

"So I'd never have to know?"

Her voice is calm, measured, and there's no way that's a good sign. He licks his lips nervously, a habit he's picked from her.

"I - guess so, yeah."

She considers him thoughtfully for what seems like an awfully, awfully long time.

"You didn't take the card because you thought you'd need extra luxuries that I couldn't pay for?"

His mouth opens in surprise, but he quickly masters it. "No. No, Kate."

She stares at him, as if gauging his sincerity, then nods once.

"You didn't take the card because you didn't trust that I could handle the financial aspect of things?"

He wants to laugh - he would laugh, if she didn't look so damn serious.

"No. No, of course not. Kate. I have complete faith in you and the never-ending list of your skills. You know that."

He was hoping for a smile; all he gets is the ghost of one, a hint of a curve at the corner of her mouth. But he'll take it.

She's obviously kept the worst question for last; her lower lip is curled between her teeth, her green eyes intent on the sheets, avoiding him.

"And." She hesitates, and his heart stutters. "You didn't. Take the card because, you thought maybe... we'd be going home separately?"

Oh, hell. Oh, Kate.

He wants to cry at the careful schooling of her face, wants to cry at the helplessness inside him, its dark, hungry pit.

"Kate."

She presses her lips together, eyelashes dark and thick against her cheeks, so close to breaking down - he doesn't need to look into her eyes to know.

"Answer the question, Castle."

He stares at her, nearly undone, swaying in despair. How can she think, how can she think, even for one minute-

But this is his fault. His fault.

He rushed things. She said _ask me_ and he asked; he pushed her into a wedding that he knew she might not be ready for, but he wanted it so bad and she seemed to want it too, and he couldn't - he can never resist her.

And then he broke their deal by taking that stupid card with him, broke their deal *again* by buying the drugs with it, and he had the nerve to think that he could sweet-talk her around to it.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry_, he wants to say, but this is not what she needs from him now. She needs reassurance, and if he has to remind her every day that he's in this, that he's in this for _always_, then he will. Gladly.

"No," he says, quiet and confident, happy to find that his voice carries every assurance he feels.

He waits until she lifts her eyes to him to deliver the next part of his sentence, and those eyes are so beseeching, large and vulnerable, that he has to reach for her, has to curl his fingers around her jaw, her cheek, her neck.

"No, Kate. Didn't even occur to me."

And she must believe him, because she lets out a long, long sigh, and at last - at last - a smile tugs at her lips. A thin smile, but it looks like a steady one, too - and it's there. For him.

"Okay," she breathes, leaning in and resting her forehead to his shoulder.

Okay.

"You'll have to explain to me," she says after a few seconds, her voice back to that dry, ironic thing that he loves, "how exactly getting those drugs qualifies as an _emergency measure_."

The tension uncoils in his chest just as the laughter spills out of his lips, and boy, does it feel good.

* * *

><p>The air inside the cathedral is cool, and a little heavy; the smell is a mixture of different things - wax from the candles, surely, and maybe some incense, but she wouldn't bet on it.<p>

Might just be the scent peculiar to ancient stone. No, not stone. Brick.

Kate's never seen a church made of brick before, even though apparently, it's a fashion in the southwest of France. This one is her first, and the rose-red color looked even more beautiful in the sunset, the fading light splashing over the facade.

And it's massive, too. Beautiful in a stark, austere kind of way.

The cathedral is the reason she made them stop in Lavaur at all - the town in itself has some nice buildings, and an interesting history that goes back to the tenth or eleventh century, but Saint-Alain was the thing she most wanted to see.

Her mother had a thing for churches. And, without being a very religious person, Johanna Beckett taught her daughter to love that quiet, sacred atmosphere, the space it gives, the way it lets her thoughts unfurl.

It's been too long since Kate last walked into a church, and it's partly why she insisted they go tonight. The other reason is that Castle looked like he could use the distraction too.

She lets go of his hand now and takes a few steps, overwhelmed by the silence, the strange sense of peace that always comes with holy places, no matter what she believes - or doesn't believe - in.

There's no one else here.

Maybe it's the late hour - she half-expected the place to be closed, to be honest - but it adds an extra dimension to their visit, a layer of intimacy and freedom that she revels in.

Castle makes an admiring sound behind her.

"How _old_ is this place?" he wonders aloud. The breathless respect in his voice brings a smile to her lips; she knew he would like it.

"It was built between the years 1255 and 1300, if I remember right," she says, turning to him.

The cathedral rather looks its age, but she likes it - likes the unpretentious decoration, the faded paintings on the walls, the absence of anything gilded or ostentatious. It's like whoever runs the place decided that the majesty of the building should be its only ornament, and she couldn't agree more.

There's something breathtaking about the very height of the ceiling, about the beautiful stained glass windows, and the bare walls only serve to emphasize it.

"Are you kidding me?" Castle looks at his surroundings again, disbelieving. "Seven hundred years old? Seriously?"

"Well, I guess not all of it is seven hundred years old. They made a lot of changes, and probably enlarged it too. But, yeah. The foundation has been there for a long, long time."

Fascination and excitement replace the shock in Castle's blue eyes; she watches him, her heart lifting at his childlike enjoyment, and remembers the tears in his eyes when Montgomery told him he could have a bottle of Beau James's whisky.

She loves that in him, the myriad different things that can evoke such an enthusiastic response in him, the ceaseless capacity for wonder. She wishes she were like this, so open, so-

Easy to please? It sounds cheap when you put it like that, and it's not what she wants, but - yes. He can be happy with so little; it strikes her sometimes, makes her envious.

But she can learn.

She can.

"Look at the *walls*," he says, moving to one of the aisles, his eyes trained on the stone. "They're painted. And yeah, the paintings are old, but - still there. This place is...amazing."

She's thrilled that he likes it so much. She is. Because it _is_ old, after all, and she's pretty sure Josh - and Will, too - would only have seen that, the ancientness of the place, its dilapidated state.

But Rick has more imagination that both of them combined, of course. He sees what the cathedral was, not what it is; he sees what has been, the million different stories that are probably rooted to the stone.

She finds herself joining him in the aisle, circling his waist with her arms and pressing a kiss to his nape.

His hands come up to cover hers, and he leans back slightly, giving her a better angle.

"I'm glad you like it," she murmurs, delighting in the warmth of his skin, the shiver that runs across his shoulders.

"Like it? I love it," he corrects, shifting in her embrace to face her, beam down at her. "And I love *you*, for bringing me here," he adds softly. "Thank you, Kate."

It ripples through her chest, little sparks of warmth that light her up; her mind flies back to that moment, that one, precious moment when she said, "I'll pay for the honeymoon."

Gratitude and happiness tangle in her throat, tinged with a tenderness for the person she was then, the Kate who didn't have all the knowledge that she has today, and yet had the right instinct about them. And this-

This is what she's dreamed of, what she's wished for; Castle and her alone in the south of France, together. No secrets, nothing between them, just - love.

So much love.

She raises on tiptoe and meets his mouth with hers, deep and slow, exultant.

_I love you too._


End file.
